It's All Just So Ridiculous
by Tohias
Summary: In which Stiles finds himself in the ridiculous position of pretending to be a prostitute and the Sheriff has to 'rent' his own son just to save him. It's an awkward night for everyone. Note: Contains sexual content between father/son.
1. Chapter 1

.

Tohias  
It's All Just So Ridiculous

* * *

[CHAPTER 1]

* * *

It wasn't Stiles' fault.

It wasn't.

There was no way he could have foreseen all the little things that would've accumulated in the situation he was in now. How could he have known that in a matter of days, Stiles would go from being an undercover-investigator to an undercover-male-prostitute? Really it was all just a series of very confusing events colliding with some bad decisions that led him into a rather perplexing situation. He was supposed to be in college doing normal eighteen-year-old stuff that definitely did _not_ involve playing hooker with his _dad._

So as Stiles started to unbuckle his father's belt while kneeling almost-naked in a lavish silk-covered bed, he really, really, _really_ couldn't comprehend where it all went wrong.

It wasn't Stiles' fault. It wasn't.

Except it kinda totally was.

o

It started with three dead girls.

Of course it did.

It'd be strange if Stiles' week _didn't_ start off with a couple corpses because Beacon Hills never failed to be anything but dull.

They only had one good month where nothing supernatural happened and no one could really even enjoy it. They were just waiting for the shit to hit the fan, for the other shoe to drop and Stiles ended up having to monitor some deeply paranoid werewolves waiting for the next thing to come jumping out of the bushes. It was not fun watching Derek slowly chew his bottom lip off out of anxiety.

That being said, the three dead girls were essentially why Stiles ended up playing spy.

And Stiles Stilinski was an awesome spy.

Actually, he was downright James Bond-ing the shite out of it. Well…there were fewer bullets and cars and more laundry and mopping but the general idea was that Stiles had successfully infiltrated a well-guarded establishment in less than twenty-four hours.

Although he admitted it wasn't as glamourous as the Bond films.

Instead of pretending to be some billionaire with lovely ladies hanging off his arms, Stiles was pretending to be a financially desperate college student willing to clean post-sex bedsheets and pick up used condoms inside champagne glasses for cash. But hey, it paid well and it _should_ considering the sheer amount of body fluids being excreted in the rooms on a nightly basis.

So yes, Stiles was working as the cleaning staff at Monroe Court, a luxurious pleasure hotel that provided goods and services for the wealthy and rich.

"I'm fine Scott, really."

Stiles whispered into his cell phone as he pushed the cleaning cart down the hallway.

" _Are you sure?"_

"Seriously bro, I got it all under control."

There was a nervous silence at the other end of the call.

" _But Stiles…it's a brothel, there are shady people there and you're all by yourself."_

Stiles opened the supply storeroom and started to refill his empty disinfectant spray bottle.

"Scott it isn't a brothel, it's just a place for some rich cats to unwind and most of the time that just means cigars, alcohol and a good massage from a pretty lady. Actually, they've got a pretty swanky establishment going on here."

" _Stiles, you just told me you finished cleaning sperm off the window in room 47. It's a brothel dressed up nicely."_

Stiles laughed at the increasing worry in his best friends voice and while it was endearing, it was more funny hearing Scott say the word 'sperm'.

" _Stiles! Stop laughing."_

Stiles stopped giggling and concentrated on getting his fingers through his disposable gloves.

"Look, I've been here for a few days and so far nothing suspicious had come up. All I could get was a confirmation that those dead girls we found on Derek's territory line were definitely working here as high-end escorts before they died."

There was a sigh from Scott but Stiles knew his friend wouldn't bother changing his mind.

" _Well Deaton said the three girls drowned."_

Stiles frowned.

"Are you sure? I mean I know we found them by the river but they had blood and _fleshy_ bits coming out of their mouths and noses. That's not drowning. That looked like they threw up their guts and choked on it."

" _Well that's exactly what I said, but Deaton's certain that the cause of death was drowning. The gory stuff coming out of their nose and mouth happened after they died."_

"After?"

" _Get this. Apparently their lung_ exploded _. The fleshy stuff we saw was actually parts of their lungs leaking out afterwards."_

Stiles took a moment to come up with a really graphic image in his head but then quickly shook it out if his mind. He didn't want to add vomit on the list of things he had to clean.

"Dude, for real?" Stiles pulled grimace. "Why do something like that? I mean those girls were already dead."

" _Crime of passion?"_

"Well at least we know 'how', now it's just up to me to figure out the 'why' and if it's going to happen again."

" _You don't have to be a one-man army Stiles. The Monroe Court is way outside of Beacon Hill, technically it's not even under our packs jurisdiction. We could just let the local authority deal with it."_

"Human authorities can't help with this sort of thing Scott. Those girls definitely died by supernatural causes and for three weeks they washed down the river into Derek's lands like clockwork. Repeated pattern Scott, it's going to happen again."

There was a sigh on the other end and Stiles could imagine those puppy brown eyes as if Scott was standing right in front of him. Stiles couldn't have his friend worry about him needlessly.

"Look, you and Derek agreed we need someone in the inside to get more information. But since this entire building is completely surrounded in mountain ash that means only I can do the job. I'll get some answers, have this wrapped up in a few days then I'll be home in time for game night."

" _Alright but I'm going to be nearby so call if anything happens and I mean ANYTHING. I'll be there."_

"Thanks bro."

o

Telling Scott that everything was going to wrap up nicely in a few days was probably being a little too optimistic.

Stiles should've known better. He was from Beacon Hills: the freakin' Bermuda Triangle of no-plan-ever-works and where bad luck was so common people wore it in their hair like a fashion statement. He really should've knocked on wood. But of course he didn't because he was too worried he would catch venereal disease if he touched anything.

So things really started to get dicey when Stiles got promoted.

"What?"

Stiles blinked at the woman with lovely green eyes and knew he looked ridiculous gawping at her from the floor with rubber gloves all the way up to his elbow.

"We need you to work tonight."

She had a deliciously enticing Russian accent but her words were clear and clipped as she scrolled through her smart phone.

"Um…sure. Is there any particular rooms you wanted dressed down and cleaned?"

Stiles made a graceless attempt at standing and miraculously managed it without marinating both of them in soap suds.

"No. Tonight you do different job."

"Err, alright. What kind of job?"

The Russian beauty finally moved her eyes away from the screen and directed all her exotic yet terrifying attention to Stiles. He resisted the urge to fidget, adjust his shirt or check if his fly was down.

She scanned him up and down then raised her eyebrow at his neon pink converse shoes.

"You will service our customers."

" _Sorry what?"_

She rolled her eyes.

"We dress you tonight, come showered and clean. You start at seven."

When she began to walk away, Stiles realised what she meant and nearly squeaked. "What? Hang on, I'm not a prostitute. I'm just the cleaner, who cleans. That's what I do. That's all I do. I swear I'm lousy at giving anyone pleasure. I'm not a pleasurable guy."

There was a beat of silence then the woman's laughter was all that Stiles could hear.

"Silly boy." The way she said 'boy' in her accent was unnecessarily toe-tingling. "No. We dress you in white shirt, black apron and you work tables. We are understaffed."

After a few moments Stiles said a soft, "Oh." He was sure he had turned an alarming shade of red. "Oh…so that's it?"

The tall beauty stalked closer and she leaned in till she was only a few inches from his nose. "Yes. However," she scanned him again and lacquered smile revealed those pearly teeth and she said, "You do not seem completely unfit for…display."

She laughed at his expression.

"Peace boy, there will be no pleasure taken from you tonight, except long hours and sore feet. The Madame only wishes to keep attractive staff on show. Public image is money and it is too short notice to find someone new. You will have to do." Then she added, "I am Nadia and you will come find me at seven tonight, understood?"

Stiles just nodded mutely and watched her sashay out of the room with all the sass in the world. Suddenly he realised why she was so unsettling. Nadia was a female version of Peter Hale in a dress.

Stiles shuddered.

o

That night Stiles found himself wearing some classy black and white waiter's outfit, serving in the main room.

It wasn't so bad and the tips were rather generous considering that most of the clients were pretty rich. Stiles just kept his head down and did as he was told.

But halfway through the night, Stiles felt the base of his neck grow hot.

It was remarkably hard to ignore because he's felt that hair-standing sensation before. Unknown eyes were trailing after him, like he was being hunted, cold gaze trained and narrowed onto his back.

Stiles balanced the tray in his hand and surreptitiously scanned the room. Nothing seemed out of place.

Stiles turned back to bar and refilled his canter, firmly ignoring the uncomfortable sensation blooming in his chest.

o

"So tell me, is _Stiles_ really your name?"

It was his fourth night at playing a fancy-table-cleaner and Stiles was rubbing the glasses in an obsessive-compulsive manner when a man approached him with a-hundred-watt smile that set his Spidey-Senses tingling.

"Er, yes it is."

"Really?" The man tilted his head, his eyes trailing down Stiles body. "How…unique."

Oh god. He just got eyed. He just got eyed down by some sleazy guzzo with gross sideburns and a nose that rivaled Severus Snape.

"Haven't seen you before, you new?"

No duh.

Stiles plastered on a painfully constipated smile and answered, "Can I help you with something? Another drink?"

"Oh sure you can help me."

Yup, there was that rape face again.

The man leaned in across the counter and actually touched his hand, trailing his large fingers up his palm and resting on Stiles wrist. He resisted the urge to recoil away from heavy warmth against his skin. Urgh.

"You know I have a permanent room here with free service all year round. How about I show you? You and I can find out just how _serviceable_ those rooms can be."

 _I'd rather have stomach ulcers._

"Umm…if you need service I'm sure I can make a call and see that you have all you require."

Mr Rape-Face suddenly tightened his fingers and pressed down on the delicate veins under his skin without losing that hungry look in his eye. Stiles honestly couldn't say he ever had someone look at him like that. The attention wasn't flattering at all.

When the man started drawing circles on his wrist Stiles just wanted to drop everything and run.

But most of all, he wanted to smash the broken edge of his champagne glass into the dude's face and make a Picasso art of it.

"Oh sure _Stiles_ , I'm make sure to tell them _exactly_ what I need."

Then the man suddenly let him go and stalked off like the cat that got the cream.

The smell of his pungent cologne remained lodged up Stiles nose for the rest of the night.

o

" _Are you sure Stiles?"_

"Yup. The Madame of the establishment is a succubus."

" _Seriously…a succubus?"_ There was paused then and sigh. " _Did she have anything to do with the death of those three girls?"_

Stiles hid behind the kitchen door and hushed into his phone.

"…I don't think so. All I know is that she really, really doesn't like wolves. Like at all. That's why the entire building is surrounded by buried mountain ash. Also, I think she's doing some weird lust thing to the guests who use her rooms. Like, I think she's literally pumping supernatural aphrodisiac to make sure all her clients leave feeling satisfied by her service."

" _Aphro – Can she do that?"_

"Honestly, I think the owner is just a business woman. From what I can tell, no one is doing anything they don't want to do."

" _So nothing on the girls?"_

Stiles rubbed his face and said, "Well, I did find a connection. All three girls had the same last client. After they had sex with this dude they all died a day later."

" _Do you have his name?"_

"Yup. A one Mr. Jim Grubs."

" _Grubs?"_

"Yeah I know, he even sounds gross."

" _How'd you find out?"_

"Sophia told me."

There was a pause then Scoot asked, _"Who's Sophia?"_

"Oh, she's this awesome French escort that helped me out on my first day. She's really nice and pretty and smart and it's weird because she's like a sexy hybrid of both Allison and Lydia but in an eastern European body. She said I had nice lips."

There was another pause.

" _Stay away from the prostitutes Stiles. You can't afford them. Give me a call when you have more info."_

o

Mr Rape-Face with the sideburns came back every night after that and Stiles realised with some despair that the man had to be a long standing patron of the hotel.

The good news was that he didn't talk to Stiles again.

However the hot feeling of pins on the back of his neck never went away.

o

" _We found another girl washed down the river this morning."_

There was a grim texture to Scott's words and Stiles knew he was running out of time.

"Alright, okay." Stiles sighed. "Don't worry I'll have it all figured out soon. Just hang tight."

" _Be careful Stiles."_

o

The whole thing started falling apart when Stiles decided to sneak upstairs to the restricted VIP levels.

He needed more intel on Jim Grubs. The man was the only common denominator in the murders and he knew Grubs frequently enjoyed his callgirls, so it was easy following his event schedule and finding out where he liked to spend most nights: The VIP parlour on the highest floor of the Monroe Court Hotel.

The problem was the VIP section was _very_ restricted, so restricted in fact that it was a few armoured doors away from being Fort Knox. It hosted only the richest guests and the clients that wanted the most privacy…and had the strangest kinks.

It wasn't a huge problem though. Stiles would just have to sneak his way in. Easy.

So Stiles stole a specific uniform only worn by the waiters that served on the top floor. It was clearly the wrong size because Stiles had to keep pulling down his shirt to cover the thin strip of belly that peeked through every time he moved.

The white gloves were kinda cool though. It made him feel like a fancy butler.

So Stiles casually carried a bottle of wine in an ice bucket and slipped into the elevator with little to no trouble. When the elevator doors opened, Stiles nearly gawped at the interior.

While the lower levels of the Monroe Court Hotel were glamorous, the top floor was clearly for those who could afford to stud their teeth with diamonds. It was opulent and lavish and Stiles felt like a street rat standing next to the black marble counter of the bar that could've doubled as a mirror. Even the _curtains_ looked more expensive than anything Stiles had ever owned. There were people sitting around tables, laughing and drinking and generally enjoying themselves. Some of the escorts gracefully circulated the room, looking fabulous and cultured as they conversed and flirted with their clients and Stiles forced himself not to stare. He had a job to finish.

So he picked up a silver platter and carefully balanced champagne glasses on the tray and began working.

It took only five minutes to locate Grubs in a private alcove with a large-chested brunette sitting on his lap. After an hour of spying, Stiles slowly came to the disappointing conclusion that Jim Grubs was as ordinary as they came. He was dumber that a box of rocks and excessively hedonistic but definitely not supernatural in any shape or form. Of course Stiles didn't rule him out completely, but his instincts were telling him that the man with wine stains on his collar, slurring words and spitting as he spoke did not kill those girls.

Pulling away from the marble counter, Stiles rapidly texted all his observations to Scott:

' _Grubs is gross but he's a dead end.' =[_

' _Tan line on ring finger. Check if he has a wife. Might be a suspect.'_

Stiles slipped his phone away and readied himself to quietly slip out, but before he could leave the main double doors opened.

It was like one of those moments in the movies where the mafia boss makes a dramatic entrance with all of his lackeys and the room goes totally quiet. They were a glamorously rich looking bunch but Stiles didn't get distracted by their jewelry and fancy shoes.

Instead Stiles noticed three specific things:

The first thing was that despite how expensive their suits looked, Stiles didn't miss the way their knives bulged under their clothes - rich criminal dicks by the looks of it.

The second thing Stiles noticed with extreme distaste was that Mr Rape-Face was among those men. His eyes zeroed in onto Stiles almost instantly and an unattractive leer spread across his face.

But the most significant detail Stiles couldn't tear his eyes away from was the last man trailing in at the end of the group.

He was in a fine dark suit, with a gun holster strapped by his waist. He looked uniquely normal in comparison to the rest of his companions who seemed to overcompensate outrageously in jewelry, hair spray and guns. The man walked into the parlour with a relaxed gait in his steps and with his hands casually in his pockets while the other guys grabbed at food and alcohol in an unimpressive scuffle.

Stiles noticed the last man in the room because he undeniably and without a doubt knew that face.

He knew those pale eyes and those stress lines at the corner of the man's mouth.

Stiles nearly dropped his platter when his brain finally registered who just walked into a high-end brothel at ten pm on a working Wednesday night and he nearly choked on his own spit when that man sprawled himself onto one of the expensive couches like he own the damn thing, like all of it was supposed to make a lick of sense.

When those eyes finally looked up and found Stiles from across the room, he couldn't help but finally put a name to the man with the wide blue eyes staring at Stiles like he was a trick of the light.

Hands shaking and disbelief swelling in his throat, Stiles whispered:

" _Dad_?"

.

.

.

NOTE: Let's be honest. Only Stiles would get into a situation like this.


	2. Chapter 2

.

Tohias  
It's All Just So Ridiculous

* * *

[CHAPTER 2]

* * *

" _Dad?"_

He snapped his mouth shut the moment the words escaped his lips.

 _It's not actually him. It can't be._

With that logical train of thought, Stiles looked back at the man just to confirm that he wasn't going completely spastic.

 _Holy bat balls, it is him._

Twisting away and staring at the wine bottles slotted into the back wall, Stiles allowed himself a moment to just freak out.

After a few seconds of mild catatonia, he glanced back again.

The sheriff wasn't looking at Stiles anymore. Instead the man had relaxed back into his seat, draped one arm on the back of the couch and turned towards some curvy middle-eastern woman in a black strapless and ordered a drink like everything was right in the world, like they didn't just make eye-contact, like this wasn't something worth freaking out about.

The teenager's eyes blinked uncomprehendingly at the sight of his father surrounded by a cohort of _criminals_ and looking every bit at ease with a woman in his lap as he did sitting at home watching football with mismatched socks. His posture was confident but not in the usual I'm-an-officer-of-the-law way. It was more like, I-could-kill-you-with-a-toothpick-and-then-continue-eating-my-dinner sort of way.

It was his dad. He was definitely Sheriff Stilinski, right down to the tilt of the mouth and the grey hair behind his ears.

It was his dad.

But…he kinda wasn't.

Feeling totally flummoxed, Stiles accidently knocked a tray of silverware off the counter, the sound turning heads towards his direction. Flushing red, he quickly crouched down and picked the utensils up which at least gave him a moment to collect his thoughts.

He should leave. He should leave immediately while everyone was distracted. One less serving boy in the room won't make a difference.

"Stiles?"

Nearly dropping the forks again, Stiles turned his head to the voice behind him.

"Sophia, hi!" Stiles winced at the pitch of his voice.

The blonde escort tilted her head, confusion marring her delicate brows as she asked, "Stiles…what are you doing here?"

"Oh you know, cleaning tables, serving drinks the usual."

The French escort still looked confused but now a slight hint of worry seeped into her face.

"Stiles…are you sure you're supposed to be here?"

"Yeah totally, Nadia promoted me a few days ago from cleaning bed sheets to cleaning cups."

"But Stiles…she wouldn't have let you work in here. She wouldn't have given you that uniform."

God, he was going to be busted now? Right at the end? By Sophia? Lovely, sexy, French bombshell Sophia?

"Of course she did!" Stiles lied. "I'm just doing my job, same job I've been doing since always, whenever, forever."

Okay, the strange mix of worry and alarm on Sophia face – the most laidback and sweet prostitute he's ever met – started to set off alarm bells at the back of his mind.

"Look Stiles, I think there must have been a mistake, you shouldn't –"

"Boy!" They both turned towards the bark and saw a patron waving an empty glass at them. "More wine!"

Relieved for the chance to escape, Stiles collected his platter and quickly dashed away from Sophia and her scrutiny. Of course his relief only lasted till he arrived at the lounge and realised the man that called him over was none other than his good friend Rape Face.

"Stiles," The man slurred his name like grease on carpet. "What a surprise! I had no idea you'd be here!"

Stiles gave a polite smile that pained him more than he could admit and silently poured the man more wine without making eye contact with anyone, especially his father lounging on the other side of the low resting coffee table.

Just as Stiles tried to make a dash for the bar, a firm hand suddenly gripped the back of his thigh.

"Aw, not so fast, why don't you come sit with me for a while? It's been so long since we last saw each other."

 _Why don't you stick that hand of yours in a blender?_

Gritting his teeth, Stiles turned back to the man and responded, "I've love to but I have tables to clean."

Mr. Rape Face slid his hand higher and higher till they were resting on Stiles left ass and gave it slow squeeze. Goosebumps erupted down his arms at the repulsive touch and Stiles briefly closed his eyes and counted backwards from five.

"Now, now don't be like that."

Mr. Rapey McDonald abruptly yanked Stiles down till he was almost in the man's lap and his face nearly colliding with the man's mountain sized nose.

Stiles tried to pull back but the man kept a firm grip.

For the first time, Stiles looked over to his dad and found the not-sheriff watching the entire interaction from the other side of the lounge. He had next to no expression except for the slight press of his lips. But Stiles knew his father. He knew his expressions.

The Sheriff was furious.

Mr. Rapey McDougal suddenly slapped Stiles' ass and huffed with lascivious amusement. "Playing hard to get now are we? You sure you wanna be playing games with me boy?"

Stiles left eye twitch.

"Sorry," he didn't sound sorry at all. "I have tables to clean."

The man's leer twisted into something less patient and his hand tightened around Stiles' wrist but the expression was gone almost immediately and was replaced by a placid smile.

Suddenly the man deliberately tilted his wine till it spilled out of his glass and splattered red directly onto his crotch.

Shifting his stained pelvis forward, he gave Stiles a cocky grin.

"Well, would you look at that? Got something else to clean now don't ya?"

Why was he here again?

Oh yeah. Because there was a bunch of dead girls.

He didn't care if there was a massacre of kittens, next time Stiles was letting Scott take one for the team. He was never doing this again.

"I can refer a good dry cleaner."

Stiles brain-to-mouth filter never really worked so he wasn't surprised when the man lost all civil pretences and pressed Stiles' body with his own. The sudden invasion of space had Stiles reeling and desperate for the need to get the man's grubby paws off him but there wasn't much he could do without making a scene and the whole idea of spying was to be sneaky, not the freakin' centre of attention.

Any and all retorts Stiles fashioned in his head came to an abrupt stop when Rapey McGee slipped one large hand _inside_ the front of his trousers and he instantly broke out in a cold sweat, his entire body tensed and screaming for him to jump back.

But the man's grip was tight and Stiles didn't know what to do.

Panicked, Stiles turned back to his father but found his dad wasn't even looking at him. Instead he was whispering something into some woman's ear and slipping her a wad of cash. Some functioning part of Stiles' mind wanted to kick his dad. Here he was getting molested and all his dad was thinking about was renting a prostitute!

Stiles gasped at a particularly unpleasant grip but Mr. Rape Face misinterpreted the sound as pleasure.

"Now, ain't this more agreeable?" He leaned in closer. "Ya still haven't cleaned my trousers." He pressed Stiles closer. "Why don't you get started down there eh?"

There was suddenly a loud crash and all eyes darted towards the broken wine glass shattered on the floor.

All eyes were on the Sheriff.

"Well damn," His father drawled pleasantly. "Sorry about that."

He didn't sound sorry at all.

The Sheriff rolled the broken flute of the glass leisurely with his left shoe, unconcerned with the sharp edges near his feet. There was something almost _too_ relaxed about his voice.

Then for the first time in the whole night, John Stilinski looked at his son right in the eyes.

"You going to clean this up boy?" His father asked.

Without needing another sign, Stiles twisted his way out of his molesters loosened grip and shuffled immediately to his dad's side of the lounge. He crouched down on the floor and pulled out the spare towel hooked to the side of his pants and began sweeping away the broken glass so he could retrieve a dust pan for later.

But in his panicky haste, Stiles' thumb pushed too forcefully against one of the broken shards and sliced a clean line down through the fabric of his gloves and into his skin. It was a shallow cut but Stiles hissed at the hot sting and dumbly watched blood blooming through the white of his gloves.

A hand suddenly clasped around his own and pulled him up.

"Sit." His father ordered.

Stiles collapsed unwillingly next to his dad as the older man yanked off his glove and pulled a handkerchief from inside his jacket and wrapped it around Stiles bleeding thumb.

Feeling off-kilter and still trying to forget the sensation of Mr. Rape Grape hands all over him, Stiles felt he could be forgiven for any stupid words that came out of his mouth.

"Seriously? You keep a handkerchief in your pocket? Who does that in this day and age?"

John didn't look at him.

"It's for cleaning blood off my knives."

Yeah and Stiles wasn't totally blinking dumbly at that unexpected response.

There was some kind of snicker from his right.

"I think you scared him John." Some man with bleach blond hair laughed into his whisky.

"Shut it Daniels." His father responded still inspecting Stiles thumb.

Yeah…Stiles _really_ didn't know what was going on.

Who were these people?

Still feeling jittery, he swallowed and asked, "So what's the damage John? Am I going to lose the finger?"

His father's name felt strange and misplaced on his tongue, like he shouldn't have said it but the Sheriff looked at him and Stiles knew that they both understood.

 _Just play along._

"Well I can't say for sure..."

Then John pulled the handkerchief away and slipped Stiles bleeding thumb into his mouth.

Stiles' brain stuttered to a halt when his throbbing finger became sheathed in a cavern of warmth and there was something undeniably strange about his father kissing his wound better like when he was a child but for a _completely_ different reason in a completely different place. This wasn't done with the intention of making his boo-boo go away. No, the look in John's eye was broadcasting a very clear intention to anyone who was watching them. This was a show for the rest of the men sitting around on the lounge.

John pulled Stiles' finger out of his mouth with a 'pop' and leaned in closer.

"Why don't you come up to my room so we can take a closer look? Make sure none of these fingers go to waste?"

Jesus.

There was a slam of glass on wood at the other side of the alcove and they both looked over to see Mr. Rapey McGee go red with anger.

"The fuck are ya doing John? He's mine!"

A dozen people turned their heads at the loud sound and Stiles just wanted to disappear into the leather and become one with the sofa.

The Sheriff however seemed to relax even further at the other man's outburst.

"He's yours now is he?" John tilted his head. "Funny, I don't think…sorry what was your name again?"

Stiles blinked up at his dad and then answered, "It's Stiles."

"…is that your real name?" he dad suddenly asked, his curiosity almost hilariously genuine.

Stiles wanted to laugh but he repressed it and gave the most honest answer for the night, "Of course not. Who names their kid _Stiles?_ "

John grinned.

Then he turned back to Mr. Rapey McSmelly and continued, "I really don't think Stiles here would agree with you, now do you Stiles?"

Stiles turned towards his molester and mimicked his father's expression of muted patronisation.

"Nope."

It seemed the double teaming from both of them had managed to raise Mr. Rapey McSpacy's blood pressure because he became an alarming shade of purple.

The next moment, the man pulled out his gun from his hip and pointed it at both of them.

Suddenly the lounge went quiet and a few of the escorts sitting with them tensed at the sight of the weapon but the other men from John's cohort looked either annoyed or amused.

John Stilinski just looked bored.

Stiles however wasn't feeling as relaxed, he couldn't look away from the barrel of the gun pointed at his father's face. Some lucid part of Stiles mind was laughing hysterically like a madman at the incredulity of the situation. Here he was, pale, skinny, ADHD Stiles, in a brothel being fought over by two men so they could buy him for a good roll around the hay, one of which was his own father.

Christ. It was just beyond ridiculous.

In the end neither Stiles nor his father had to do anything.

The blonde one, Daniels, sighed around his cigar and scowled at Rape Face.

"For god sakes Clark, put the damn thing away. You're killing the mood." Daniels rolled his eyes. "It's not like there aren't other boys around. You're in a brothel for crying out loud."

Some ginger with tattoos snickered. "Besides this is the first time I've seen John choose anyone. Let the prude have some fun."

Mr. Rape Face, or Clark, looked increasingly incensed.

John pulled Stiles closer to his side and downed another glass of wine.

"Besides Clark, there's nothing you can do," his dad wasn't grinning but with that amused sparkle in his eyes, he might as well be cackling hysterically and Stiles was openly baffled and amazed by this bizarre, vindictive version of his father.

"He's already _mine._ "

Suddenly a woman approached John and handed him a key.

"Mr. John O'Brien, the transaction is complete and your room is ready."

John pulled Stiles from the lounge and with one last condescending look at Clark, they both followed the woman out of the parlour.

o

The door clicked shut behind them and all that Stiles could see was a large room as luxurious and opulent as every other room Stiles had the misfortune of cleaning as a brothel janitor.

Stiles let out a sigh and closed his eyes, feeling like he could breathe again after all the intensity back in the parlour.

"Aw man, that was close call." Stiles huffed with relief.

Stiles turned to his father but the older man was still facing the door with his back towards Stiles.

"Dad?"

The Sheriff didn't turn around.

"Dad?"

There was still no response and Stiles started to realise that he might have jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

"Dad, come on –"

"Is it money?" the older man's voice cut in cold and sharp.

Stiles closed his mouth midway and blinked in confusion.

"What?"

"Is it money?" His dad quietly repeated with his face still turned away and Stiles felt increasingly worried.

"Dad, what on earth are you talking about?"

Suddenly the Sheriff spun around and stalked right up to his son's face, his eyes wet and ablaze with impotent fury.

"Is it the _money_?! Is it why you're doing this? Because if it's about college fees or your jeep or _anything_ , you could've come to me!"

Completely at lost, Stiles just gawped at his father because the man almost never raised his voice at Stiles, not even when he lied to him for months, chased dead bodies or played around with the supernatural. Sheriff Stilinski never yelled.

"Dad, I don't –"

"Because I would've helped Stiles." Now his dad just sounded sad. "I've would've helped."

Stiles frowned, unsure what to say but then it slowly it dawned on him.

"Wait…" He furrowed his brows. "You don't actually think…?" Stiles blinked again and suddenly he was protesting rather loudly, "Dad! What the hell! I'm not a prostitute!"

Sheriff Stilinski still didn't seem very happy at Stiles words.

"Then why in god's green earth are you dressed like one!"

Stiles sputtered and looked down at himself then back up at his father. "I'm not dressed like a prostitute! There's barely any skin showing!"

"That uniform you're wearing is Monroe Court's dress code for the male escort working in the top floor parlour."

"Wha..?"

Suddenly Stiles remembered Sophia's confusion and her insistence that Stiles couldn't have been asked to work there. She wasn't talking about Stiles working as a server – she was talking about Stiles working as a prostitute. No wonder poor Sophia looked so alarmed.

Stiles groaned.

He messed up.

"Stiles," John made sure his words were clear and concise, "Please be very clear with me. Are you or are you not servicing your body for money?"

"No!" Stiles protested.

"Then I'm going to ask again why – if you're not working in a pleasure hotel – are you wearing a male escort uniform?"

Stiles gave a great big sigh and sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Because I _am_ working here. I was a janitor first then I got promoted to cleaning tables and serving drinks to clients on the lower levels. I'm wearing this uniform because I stole it. It was the only way I could sneak into the top floor." Stiles suddenly chuckled with little humour. "Although I swear I had no idea I was advertising myself as a prostitute for half the night. I just thought these were just fancy waiter clothes for the VIP parlour." He rubbed his eyes. "Jokes on me."

His dad seemed to flounder for words and just took a moment to process his son's answer. In the end, he just asked:

" _Why?"_

He sighed and answered, "Because I'm helping the pack investigate some supernatural murders that were linked back to this hotel."

Stiles knew his father didn't like the answer.

"Stiles!"

"What?! Dad I've been doing this for years, you know that! And I'm not running around fighting monsters or anything. It's just collecting information and relaying it back to Scott and Derek."

"So those two know."

"Dad, it was my plan, my decision. Not theirs."

The sheriff sighed.

"You're supposed to be in college Stiles. You're supposed to be studying. You're supposed to be at parties and freaking out about exams, not chasing killers and solving murders. That's my job."

"Well maybe I would've have called you if you were home half the time I visited!"

John rubbed his face and sighed. "I know I've been away but that's only because you're not home anymore and I have other thing on my plate now."

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "What, like playing mafia with your criminal friends back downstairs?"

John didn't answer.

"Dad, what are you doing with a crowd like that? And don't tell me its cop stuff because I know it's not. No Sheriff I've ever seen plays undercover agent with a false persona and name. That's not local police work."

"Stiles…it's classified."

Stiles barked out an unamused laugh. "Just by saying 'classified', you've just basically told me you're working with, at the very least, FBI. Did Scott's dad rope you into this? Is it a favour? Is that why you were pulling a Jason Bourne?"

"Stiles! Enough!"

Stiles huffed but didn't speak further on it.

"Look, let's just get out of here."

His dad walked back to the door and pulled it but after a few tugs it wouldn't open.

Stiles moved forward and gave the double doors a hard yank but that remained locked in place.

"Oh my god…I totally forgot."

John looked back at his son. "Why are the doors locked?"

"It's how it's run here. They always lock the doors because it seals the air in here without disruption, it helps the pheromones or love gas or whatever the hell the Madame pumps into the vents to circulate better in the room."

His father stood motionless with confusion.

" _Pheromones?"_

Stiles started to panic. "Did I forget to mention that the Madame that owns this lovely establishment is a succubus?"

"Yes Stiles, you did forget to mention it."

Suddenly Stiles remembered another very big piece of information regarding the room.

"…there are also cameras in the room. They installed them for the safety of the escorts and also cliental insurance. I discovered them while I was still a janitor. There're at least two in every room."

They both froze in place, unsure what to do.

His dad turned back to the door and gave it another hard pull.

"Look we'll get out of this Stiles. Just – Stiles?" John turned back to his son. "Stiles, what are you doing?"

John Stilinski turned back to find Stiles sitting on the bed and slowly unbuttoning his vest. After shedding his top clothes, Stiles began working on his white shirt while looking straight at his father.

"Stiles…why are you taking your clothes off?"

The teen ignored the questions and said, "Slowly walk towards me and look to the ceiling on your left and then to the painting on your right. Do you see the cameras?"

After a moment of hesitation John followed the instructions and found both cameras while approaching the bed.

"I see them…do they have audio?"

Stiles peeled his shirt off and dropped it to the floor.

"No. Just visuals."

"Is it recording or it just showing real time only?"

"I don't know but the angles too high on both cameras that they haven't seen my face well enough."

"Stiles, stop taking your clothes off."

John finally reached the bed and Stiles left hand was still gloved while the right was bare and the cut of his son's thumb was visibly still red. Stiles pulled his last glove off and dropped it at the Sheriff's feet.

Stiles pulled his shoes off and threw his socks away.

"Stiles stop. We'll get out of here."

Stiles subtly shook his head and eyed the camera to his left.

"They can't find out I'm here dad, the Madame may or may not see this and I can't risk being caught when I still don't know if she's involved in the killings. I still don't know if she's dangerous. I can't be caught in her territory dad. I can't. And definitely not with _you_."

Stiles reached out and yanked the collar of his dad's suit and peeled it off his shoulders.

"Stop…"

"And you can't be caught by your mafia friends."

John pulled away from his son and eyed him wearily.

"Stiles, we'll wait for those doors to open, they won't stay locked forever."

Stiles gave a frustrated shake of his head but had to temper it down so the cameras wouldn't pick it up.

"Dad, please believe me when I tell you I know these rooms. Those doors won't open till the person on the other side of those cameras knows you've finished using…their _services."_

Stiles swallowed the bile in his throat and tried to shake off the cold sweat on his brow.

John Stilinski all but growled.

"For god sakes Stiles! I'm not having sex with you!"

The both winced at the words finally spoken out loud and it sounded just as ugly as it did in their heads.

The Sheriff moved back a few steps and looked at his son with blazing blue eyes all defiant and protective. But Stiles could see his father's stress lines carved deep into the man's face like trenches mapped on his skin and the worried set of his shoulders seemed to press heavy against the older man's body. Why did Stiles have to continuingly, without fail, kept dragging his father into these messes?

God, he wanted to go home.

"I'm sorry dad…"

There was a sigh and John rubbed his face with both hands.

Neither Stiles nor his father moved or talked for a few minutes after that.

Suddenly a thought occurred to Stiles.

He peeked over to the cameras with a thoughtful frown and blinked at the angles of the lens and creating a mental map in his head. Then Stiles looked back at the bed which was filled with pillows, volumes of blankets and fluffy cushions, all of them good at obstructing a clear view for the cameras and whoever was sitting behind them.

It could work…Stiles had a plan.

"Dad I think I know what we have to do." Stiles whispered even though he knew there was no audio in the cameras. "They'll only open those door when the _think_ they've seen we've finished using the room. So if we take the camera angles and the blind spots into consideration we can fake our way through this, they won't be able to see anything we don't want them to see."

There was some confusion in his father's eyes but Stiles didn't wait for a response.

He immediately pulled his pants down and kicked them away, now shivering since all he was wearing were just his red boxer shorts.

 _Fake it._

Giving one last eye at the cameras, Stiles sat up and kneeled on top of the mattress and tried to relax his body into something that might have resembled ease and confidence since he knew there was _no way_ he could pull off sexy for the cameras.

Stiles reached out and pulled his father closer by his belt and observed his dad blink with slow apprehension but also a glimmer of understanding.

 _Just play along._

So Stiles slinked forward, pulling on whatever charm and confidence he could muster and tilted his head at his 'client' and gave the smallest smirk, a little bit cheeky and a little bit shy and just a touch cool. He suddenly pressed his body right up the other man's torso and drew his hands from his dad's shoulder and trailed them down his chest, feeling the muscle underneath twitch and move.

If he saw his father's eyes widened in surprise, he ignored it.

 _Just play along._

He yanked the man's shirt from his pants and then trailed his finger underneath the fabric and directly onto warm skin. He listened to his dad's rapid heartbeat and tracked the rise and fall of his breathe.

Stiles moved even closer than before till his naked thighs were parallel to the other man's body with almost no space left between them. He then wrapped his arms around his father's – _John's_ neck in a half embrace and caught the man's blue eyes wide and almost confused but he knew there was understanding there as well. But he could see the tension and unsureness in the Sheriff's body so Stiles leaned in till his lips were pressed to the shell of John's ear.

"Just play along." He whispered.

With those last damning words, Stiles hooked his thumbs into the hem of his own boxers and with one quick movement pulled them down till he was naked as the day he was born.

Fake it for the camera.

 _Just play along._

.

.

.

Note: Thank you for reading and stayed tuned!

TOHIAS-BANE


	3. Chapter 3

.

Tohias  
It's All Just So Ridiculous

* * *

[CHAPTER 3]

* * *

If Stiles had ever gone into the pleasure business, he'd like to think he'd be good at it.

He'd be that guy that wasn't exactly the most attractive rent-boy around but he'd be known for his star quality skills in between the sheets and magnetic personality on the streets. They would request him personally because – for reasons lost on both him and his clients – his satisfied bed partners would kinda start liking his blabbering, pale, mouthy charm.

But in reality…Stiles would probably be fired for being unbearably awkward.

Because he really didn't know what to do.

He knew the mechanics obviously since he and Malia had a healthy physical relationship but…this was different.

He wasn't with his girlfriend in the comfort of their bedroom and the sound of the TV in the background filling the air with ambient noise. He wasn't fumbling and learning something new and exciting with a partner equally as willing. He wasn't doing something that felt _right_.

There was nothing _natural_ about sliding his naked body up against someone whose limbs was harder and leaner than he was used to.

There was nothing _normal_ about the feeling of silkbed sheets between his legs, much too sleek and expensive than his threadbare blanket at home.

There was something distinctly _distracting_ about watching his own hands thread away his father's gun holster from his hip and quickly dropping it on the floor like the leather would burn him if held onto it for too long – like if he did it all fast enough, it would be easier to compartmentalize.

He pushed back the feeling of intense _weirdness_ when he started to unbuckle his father's belt.

But before he could complete his task, the Sheriff quickly stopped his fingers from moving any further. Suddenly Stiles' naked body was wrapped in white sheets covering his bareness in one quick spread and he was unbelievably thankful for it.

Confused, he watched his father move away and disappear into the bathroom only to come back a moment later with something in his palm.

"Give me your hand."

"The cameras –"

"Don't worry about that and give me your hand."

Stiles blinked down and realised the cut on his finger and starting bleeding again.

Wordlessly he watched his dad wipe away the blood with a damp wad of toilet paper and slowly wrap the sticky band aid on his wound. Honestly the cut didn't deserve much attention, it was shallow and it would have stopped bleeding with or without the band aid but he was relieved to have a moment to breathe.

When it was all done and the stained tissue were thrown somewhere on the floor, his dad still didn't let go of his hand.

"Lie back on the pillow."

"What?" Stiles asked, startled by the sudden command.

"It's alright, just lie back and let me worry about the rest."

There was a moment where Stiles was going to argue but he realised that his father was taking charge of the situation and he was remarkably relieved of it. So he shuffled back onto the unnecessarily large bed and made himself comfortable against the wall of pillows. He wearily watched his father crawl onto the mattress but instead of coming closer, the Sheriff sat by Stiles' feet and stayed there.

Slowly, his dad took one of Stiles legs and began to rub gentle circles deep into the base of feet. His large hands pushed and kneaded the heels and worked in between the webbing of his toes and repeated the motion.

"What are you doing?" Stiles managed to ask.

"Giving you a massage." The older man answered in a matter-o-fact tone.

"I can see that."

"You need to relax."

"I am relaxed." Oh, he knew that was a lie.

"Your hands are shaking."

Stiles quickly tucked his fingers in the safety of his blankets and scowled. "I'm fine."

"Then indulge me." His dad replied while switching his ministrations to the other feet.

"Hey this is backwards, I'm supposed to be servicing you, not the other way around."

"Stiles, can you just let me do this?"

"But –"

"Stiles."

He locked eyes with his dad and couldn't help but note the familiar stress lines in the corner of his eyes were deep and his lips were pressed thin while his shoulder bunch harshly together, like the way they did when his dad was pouring over impossibly hard case files late into the night.

So Stiles just nodded and leaned back into the pillows.

The Sheriff's hands crawled up his calves and made their way to his knobby knees where the joints ached from scrubbing floors in his short stint as a janitor. He breathed out in relief as the dull pain began to disappear with each circular drawl of his father's fingers.

"I used to do this for you when you hit your growth spurt – kicked me off the couch more than once with those gangly legs of yours just so you could order me to give you a massage."

"I kicked you off the couch because you were falling asleep with those case files lodged up your nose." Stiles closed his eyes at a particularly nice press at the back of his knees. "I was doing you a favour."

His dad snorted softly as he dug deeper into his muscles.

Stiles sighed as his dad pressed higher up his legs, large warm hands dragging out some of the stress he's accumulated in the last few days from playing spy. There was a lingering smell of sugar and warmth and something like ozone filling his mind that made him sleepy but not tired and Stiles had to bite back another sigh as his father rubbed circles into his skin.

Without much thought, Stiles pulled up the sheets higher so his dad could access more of his bare thighs.

But after a few seconds Stiles could no longer feel his father's ministrations.

"Hey why'd you stop?"

When he opened his eyes, he noted there was a peculiar look on his father's face but it was replaced by a quick cough and averted eyes.

"I think that's all for now." His father cleared his throat again and shifted back.

Frowning, Stiles sat up and realised why his dad wasn't looking in his direction.

It was his legs. Maybe the massage worked too well because at some point Stiles had relaxed and spread his legs a little _too_ far apart to help with his father's ministrations. But now it looked inappropriately _open_ and he had unwittingly lifted the sheets perhaps a little _too_ high. While nothing private was showing, the edges of the blankets were bunched around his waist only an inch shy of showing _everything_ underneath. He decidedly looked disgracefully _wanton_ , like those Victorian whores he'd seen in so many films.

Flushing red, Stiles shut his legs closed and surreptitiously pulled the sheets down to regain some modesty.

He couldn't smell the sugar anymore but he was starting to smell his embarrassment. Whatever calm they both had momentarily gained was gone and Stiles desperately wanted to lift the atmosphere into something more breathable.

Making a quick decision, Stiles crawled towards his dad and sat behind him.

"What are you doing?" His dad asked turning his head just enough to eye him.

Stiles tightened the sheets around his waist so they wouldn't fall off and placed both hands on his father's shoulder.

"Giving you a massage." Stiles answered simply. "It's only fair I return the favour and so far I'm coming off as a pretty bad rent-boy."

"You not a rent-boy." His father's words were quick and clipped.

Stiles rolled his eyes. "Dude I know, I'm just saying that _if_ I was, I think I could do better than this, so just sit back, relax and let me do my magic."

Before his dad could say anything, Stiles felt around for those stress knots sitting in his shoulders and dug down. The Sheriff made a pained huff but stayed still as Stiles tackled each hot spot in his father's battered and high-strung muscles. He pressed with his palms and kneaded with his fingers till slowly those sore knots began to ease into something less like stress tumours.

Stiles knew his father worked hard and being one of the only officers that actually knew about the monsters that went bump in the night meant his dad was under even more strain than most. Not to mention that in the eyes of the higher departments, the Sheriff's unsolved cases were starting to look increasingly unimpressive.

It was because of stuff like that, that made Stiles do stupid things like go undercover in a brothel without telling his dad.

His father deserved way more than just stress lines and grey hair.

"You know…you could retire soon if you wanted." Stiles suddenly commented.

His father who had been slowly slumping against him sat up again twisted his neck to look back at him. "What?"

"Retirement." He repeated. "You know, playing golf and going fishing whenever you want."

There was a moment of confused silence then his father turned back around and answered. "I'm lousy at golf and you know I can't fish to save my life."

Stiles dragged his palms deep into centre of his dad's back and the Sheriff hissed.

"You can take a vacation far away and spend your days doing something you _do_ like."

"Like I'm going to leave you here with a bunch of werewolves and an apocalyptic army of supernatural creatures raining down on Beacon Hills by yourself."

His father huffed out in a lazy sigh as Stiles kneaded his lower back, pulling and pressing at the tension coiling underneath his father's skin.

"I'll go with you."

His father didn't say anything more except groan when Stiles circled his thumbs into the dimples of his back.

"How about Europe? We can go to Poland like mom always wanted to." Stiles continued.

"You can't stand the cold." The older man countered.

Stiles shrugged and added, "Then let go to Asia. You can like totally buy an entire meal for only three dollars in Thailand, which means both of us will ever have to cook again. Two birds, one stone."

His dad huffed out a little laugh and groaned again when Stiles dug deep into his sides.

"You'd never let me eat anything there." He sighed again. "You'd probably find out ways to convince me that everything has too much grease or MSG."

"Well they _do_ have a lot of MSG and I'll probably have to monitor your intakes of salts and sugars but you can totally balance that out with lots of exercise." Stiles argued.

"I get plenty of exercise chasing after you." His dad grinned.

"How about New Zealand? You know their seasons are backwards? We should totally have Christmas on the beach where we'll go gloriously red."

His dad shifted out of his reach and suddenly his was looking at him with sharp eyes.

"Stiles…what's this all about?"

"Nothing. I'm just saying that maybe you should consider relaxing a bit more. Retirement could be good for you, you're not young anymore you know?"

There was a moment where his dad just looked at him puzzled but then the man sighed and held his gaze.

"Stiles I'm not going to New Zealand, or Thailand or Europe." His dad said quietly. "And I'm not retiring till I'm ready."

Stiles looked at the silk beneath his thighs and clenched his teeth.

"Till you're dead you mean."

Suddenly his father's palms were cupping the side of his neck, lifting his head so he wouldn't be able to avoid his dad's gaze.

"Stiles look at me." His father ordered gently. "What's going on with you?"

Stiles yanked away and managed to stop himself from falling over the edge of the mattress in his haste.

God it was so fucking hot in the room, Stiles just wanted to tear the sheets of his body, nudity be damned.

"Why? Why can't you retire and move away? It's not like it'd be hard." Stiles gritted out.

"Because you know that's never going to happen." His father replied with that infuriating calm that Stiles found personally insulting.

"Why?!"

"Because you'd never leave your pack behind." His father said gently. "And because I will never leave _my_ pack behind. And the only person in my pack is _you_."

And the answer was so simple that Stiles knew it to be the truth, even though he wanted to whack his dad for it.

The older man leaned forward to reach for him but Stiles edged away again.

His dad sighed. "You're a protector. That's who you've grown to be, even though some part of me wishes you weren't so damn brave but this is the price we pay for being who we are. You can't remove me from danger any more than I could remove you from it. It's not your fault and it's not mine either."

Stiles was no longer looking at the mattress and now he was just staring at the patchwork of scarred skin and healed wounds running down his dad's torso like some kind macabre painting made of flesh. And he knew there would be more in the future, more added to that collage stitched onto his father's skin. And that was the worst part.

"That's the place where the Oni stabbed you with their poisoned blades." Stiles suddenly pointed out.

They both looked at the Sheriff's abdomen.

"And that's the place where you got shot by hunters when you were trying to protect me. And that other scar was when you got systematically electrocuted for three days for information about _me._ "

Stiles blinked away the helpless fury and crippling impotence he'd always felt for being hopelessly _human._

"Dad, you say we're pack but the truth is I'll probably the reason why you'll end six-foot under next to mom!"

The strange smell of sugar and ozone thickened and Stiles just wanted to hurtle something breakable against the wall.

"Stiles, you need to calm down. The cameras are –"

"Can't you see that if you die, I'll have no family left?!" Somewhere in the back of Stiles' head, he knew he was being too loud and he was ruining their charade of 'faking it' but for some reason he couldn't lower his voice or temper his raging anxiety. "We're locked in a room that's owned by a person that may or may not be a supernatural serial killer that can make their victims lungs _explode_ from the inside out. I can't have you here with me. I can't have you killed because of me!"

His father inched closer but didn't touch him.

"You don't need to protect me Stiles." He finally said. "I'm your father. It's my job to protect _you_."

Stiles suddenly barked out an unattractive laugh that sounded more like a cry.

"Yeah, you're my father and look at where we are: in a brothel with me naked in your bed."

Stiles knew he shouldn't have said it.

It wasn't supposed to sound like a dirty accusation but it was like there was suddenly no filter from his brain to his mouth anymore. Not that there ever was one.

The creases in his father's face deepened and his blue eyes turned more like grey steel when he stared at Stiles with hurt, guilt and _anger._

"You think I want this? You think this is easy?"

His father's cold voice was so bizarre and unfamiliar that it cut through his thoughts like a hot guillotine.

"You think it doesn't pretty much destroy whatever paternal instincts I have left to see my son crawl back home night after night with his skin hanging off his body by bloody strips and bullet holes in your clothes every time I do the laundry? Do you think it's easy holding my tongue when you run off with your wolves and don't call for days on end, having me tear my hair out wondering if you're dead in gutter somewhere? Do you think I can face going to your mother's grave to tell her that I sent her son to die just the other week _again_ and I still couldn't do a damn thing to stop it!?"

His father's sudden volume had him jumping back in alarm and suddenly Stiles couldn't shake off the feeling of overwhelming vertigo.

"Dad –"

His vision was blurring together.

"I haven't been able to call myself you father for _years._ I don't need you to remind me exactly where we are."

It all just smelt like thick syrup, cloying his nose and eating his mind.

"Stiles?"

He barely noticed when he half collapsed into his father's arms.

" _Stiles!"_

Then his vision went black.

o

When Stiles woke, the first thing he wanted to do was kick of his blankets because it was much too hot and he rather not sweat out before he had the chance to get to school, but instead of finding his quilt, Stiles was covered in a blanket of hot skin and hard muscle.

Naturally he flailed about in alarm, his knees knocking together and his head colliding against the other's collar bone with a painful thwack.

"Stiles. Stiles are you okay?"

He shook off his dizziness and blinked up at the face attached to that torso that had too much skin for his liking.

"Dad?"

"How'd you feel?"

Stiles rubbed his eyes and fidgeted against the pillow and he looked around the room.

Some part of him was convinced it was all just a nightmare concocted from eating bad takeout but his eyes scanned the locked door and his red boxers on the floor and he knew life wouldn't make it that easy for him.

Stiles closed just his eyes again and groaned.

"God, please tell me I'm dreaming."

His father just ran his hand across his forehead and pressed his fingers to his pulse. "Stiles look at me. What happened?"

He had to think for a minute because Stiles' wasn't too sure he actually remembered. But then he did, and it wasn't cool. "Balls. I can't believe I fainted. Actually _fainted_."

"Are you sure that's all that happened?"

"I dunno, I just…I just got really dizzy and I couldn't stand the smell. Fuck is it just me or is really hot in here?"

There was a sigh from above and Stiles staunchly ignored his father's face.

They didn't speak for a few short moments till Stiles gaze up and asked, "Why are you on top of me?"

The Sheriff leaned away and shrugged of the thin sheets off his back.

"It's for the cameras. When you collapsed I had to make it look like everything was alright so I pushed you back on the bed and well…made it look like we were busy. It's only been a minute since you went down."

Stiles blinked.

"Oh." He coughed. "Good thinking."

There was another awkward pause.

They didn't look at each other and it didn't help that he had their last conversation swirling around in his head and wanted to apologize but didn't quite know how to start.

In the end his father decided for him.

"Look I'm sorry about before." His dad slumped a bit and turned to look at the wall to the left.

Stiles shook his head. "Everything you said was true, so…I'm sorry too."

"I still shouldn't have yelled at you, shouldn't have said those things…it wasn't like me." His dad finished quietly.

Stiles scratched his neck trying to hide his shame and added, "Yeah…I don't think that was entirely us back there but we're good yeah?"

The Sheriff nodded. "Yeah, we're good."

They weren't.

Not even close, not with Stiles naked with his dad's thighs pressing him from both sides and he felt like he was running a freakin' fever and his skin felt unbelievably sensitive.

It was the pheromones, Stiles thought, it had to be. He wrinkled his nose as the scent of syrup thickened in the room and the way it made his skin flush with uncomfortable warmth. He eyed the clock on the wall as it struck midnight and Stiles knew they had to start even though he wanted to delay the inevitable further.

In the end Stiles gave a weak laugh and scratched the back of his head and met his dad's eye with false bravado.

Now or never.

Of course the next words out of his mouth were as graceful as ever. "So...doggy style first?"

.

.

.

NOTE: The chapter was supposed to be longer with the entire story wrapping up but my laptop malfunction and I lost a far bit of the writing so I had rewrite everything. So my heart could only muster the first half of the resolution.

However your reviews have been the fuel to my rather indecent fire burning my hedonistic thoughts.

This is for you guys.

TOHIAS


	4. Chapter 4

.

TOHIAS  
It's All Just So Ridiculous

* * *

[CHAPTER 4]

* * *

John Stilinski was not a young man.

He hadn't been a young man in a long time. But when he _had_ been young, John had some expectations as to who he'd become when he turned half-a-century-old.

When John was just a young deputy with a new wife and a baby boy on the way, he had imagined that at fifty plus years he'd be the kind of man his own father was, the kind of man that Claudia saw in him with unshakable certainty.

When John was just a young deputy, he had imagined that when he decided to retire, it would be because wanted to leave the active part of his life behind him and enter his twilight years in peace.

Not because his son asked him to stop fighting, begging him with cold fear in his eyes and impotent worry in his voice.

But his son was right.

He was going to get shot. Or more likely, he was going to be mauled to death by another friendly monster before he'd ever get the chance to file for retirement. He should be thinking of taking up fishing or golf or something respectfully mundane and mind-numbingly safe – if not for himself, then for Stiles who doted on his well-being with suffocating fierceness that John found equally endearing as he found agonizing.

But he can't, he can't as long as they're _both_ caught in the supernatural cesspool that seemed to have spawned in Beacon Hills.

John doesn't know how long he can pretend he's mentally fit to keep watching the world catch fire and then watch his son run right into the inferno like it's the sanest thing to do, like its normal that the Stilinski men don't even flinch when they find mutilated bodies of children in the woods every other month.

At fifty plus years, John thought he would still have his wife.

A wife to tell him to stop being so busy and to stay home, a wife to balance the dynamics and sooth their overly testosterone home into something sweet, kind and lovely. She would have never let Stiles get into half the trouble that he did. She would have shielded them with that magical stuff called maternal instinct that John can't ever hope to replicate for their son.

When John Stilinski was still young, he had hoped that at fifty plus years, he would still be _John Stilinski_.

But he can't really call himself that anymore. Not really.

Not as he moved in between Stiles' naked thighs and spread his son's legs open, yanking the sheets away and revealing more skin than any father should see. John tries not to look, makes it clinical and disinterested as he tries to give the boy some modesty when he's actually supposed to be defiling him.

He's not John Stilinski.

He's something entirely different now, something shameful and monstrous and John thinks he might drink a bottle of bleach when he goes home after this.

o

They shuffled back onto the pillows, his father approaching and Stiles retreating.

He kept his eyes lowered as his head rested against the cotton and silk beneath his bare skin, ignoring the red pooling under his cheeks and warming his ears. But despite averting his eyes, there was very little to look at when his father was looming over him half naked and pressed close. There was no bed sheets covering his midriff anymore, it was tossed to the side and now Stiles couldn't hide his body from the cameras or his father.

Warm hands were suddenly on him, rubbing his arms, brushing his neck and lightly squeezing the muscles of his legs.

The actions were all soft and long and…and…

What the hell?

Stiles resisted the urge to look down at his crotch but he could feel it – the pre-heat in his stomach, the tingling under his skin and the swelling promise of pleasure running up and down his legs.

 _God no, please. This can't be happening._

He couldn't actually be aroused by his father's _petting_! It wasn't even sexy or very nice. He wasn't supposed to be feeling that weird warmth pooling in his stomach which only meant one thing.

Five kinds of mortification seemed to bulldoze Stiles into twitching away from his father and turning on his side and crossing his legs.

"Stiles?" his dad called out.

"You don't have to be so gentle." The words came out before Stiles could stop them.

His dad glanced up at him but continued dragging his rough palms down both sides of his hips and all the way down to his knees, the pressure firm but still oddly polite.

"Do you have a problem with gentle?"

Stiles resisted the urge to scratch his nose. "No…but…"

He was a prostitute and John was a client. They had a script to follow and it was the only stability, the only guide Stiles had in regards to 'faking it'. Rough and disinterested. Not slow and loving – but _loving_ was the only way to describe his father's actions because that was how his dad treated him since forever.

And there was that cloying smell of sugar and ozone.

"It's not all rough you know." His dad added carefully.

"I know." Stiles responded quickly, keeping his body tilted to his side. "Just… we don't need to do foreplay you know?"

Because Stiles was pretty damn sure that if he got anymore _petting_ from his dad, he was going to be springing a boner without his consent.

Goddamn pheromones.

"It's not fore –" His father looked like he wanted to sigh and maybe bury his face into the mattress like an ostrich hiding its head in the sand. "How do you want to do this then?"

Stiles answered a little more clipped than he intended, "I don't know."

"Stiles, I'm really trying here."

"Alright, alright I'm sorry." Stiles squirmed. "Can we…um just speed it up?"

His father looked down at him, his gaze neutral but assessing then after a second he nodded and pulled Stiles legs on both sides of his waist and dragged him forwards.

Stiles gave a yelp at being suddenly pulled by his legs, his privates crushed against a solid wall of fabric over skin.

"Alright, wrap your legs around my waist and keep it there." His dad's voice was a peculiar brand of calm and distant, like he was reading a shopping list. "Now grab that pillow beside you and prop it by your hip. It should cover most of the view from the cameras so they won't be able to see anything specific."

Stiles obediently followed the instructions as quickly as he could and watched his father unbuckle his belt and let it hang open. But his dad didn't move to unbutton his pants or pull down his fly.

"I thought this was naked-sexy time…aren't you going to take off your pants?" Stiles suddenly blabbered.

The older man glanced down at himself then locked eyes with his son. "We can do this without taking off every article of clothing." Of course Stiles thought, that made sense. Then his dad added a little more quietly. "And…I thought you'd appreciate some kind of barrier between us."

Stiles blinked.

"Ah…yeah, yeah that's fine."

He cleared his throat and continued to ignore that uncomfortable warmth churning in his belly like a pot of boiling water. Stiles hooked his legs tighter and staunchly ignored the open position of his body and counted the brass rings on the curtain hanger by the window because he didn't want to focus on how itchy the tingling in his groin was getting. Nope. Not thinking about that at all.

His father leaned down till his face was only inches away from Stiles and quietly instructed, "Put your arms around my neck."

Stiles did as he was told and connected his hands together at the back of his dad's neck till all his limbs were locked around his father's body. His dad pushed even closer till his bare chest pressed firmly against Stiles naked torso and their bellies flat against each other.

They didn't move for a long while after that.

"Dad?" Stiles mumbled against his dad's shoulder when he couldn't wait any longer.

His father remained unmoving for a few more seconds and suddenly lifted his gaze to look at Stiles. The blue of the older man's eyes were weary but firm.

"I'm going to move…are you okay with that?"

And man…Stiles couldn't stand the look on his dad's face, like he was holding back from breaking away and hitting the walls or desperately trying to hold the entire fucked up situation together with his bare hands. And Stiles knew he did this. He dragged his dad into his mess _again_ and he was thoroughly fed up with teasing his father's life into an early grave.

His dad won't have to carry the responsibility by himself and Stiles had enough with his own uncertainty, they just didn't have time for it.

They were a team. They were going to do this together.

So Stiles didn't say anything and just moved.

He arched his body and thrusted upwards till he met with his father's pelvis and rolled his hips.

If he felt electricity flash through his stomach and down to his toes, he ignored it. If his father's flinched at the sudden action, Stiles held even tighter than before.

With shaking hands that contradicted his confident words, Stiles leaned in and whispered:

"I'm ready."

o

Stiles had a game plan.

It was simple really. They'd roll around a bit, make some embarrassing but impressively flexible positions, fake the climax which will be with-out-a-doubt, so, _so_ awkward and then they'll be out of the room in an hour. Tops.

Except it went wrong five minutes into their little charade. Five minutes.

Even Stiles was unimpressed by that record.

o

It started slow and steady. It seemed only logical to begin as such.

Stiles felt his father gently grab the side of his hips, using the pelvic bone as a grip and pushed forward in small little movements that were barely anything at all. But after several little test runs, Stiles felt those hands on his hip pushed down harder as his dad gave an experimental thrust into his body. Faking what would have been the first penetration for the cameras.

An uncomfortable flush jolted inside Stiles chest and buried itself into the heat of his groin.

Stiles closed his eyes and recited the periodic chart backwards.

His father above him kept the rhythm steady and gentle, his hands bizarrely respectful despite what his hips were doing. The soft fabric of his father's trousers brushed up against his inner thighs and some part of Stiles couldn't decide if he wanted his dad to take off his pants or not. He just felt a little _lewd_ being the only one completely naked.

They didn't look at each other. Stiles buried his face into his dad's shoulder his arms clung around the older man's back while his dad had his head lowered out of view. They were both grateful for whatever escape that could get.

The thrusts kept coming, still long and slow but the tempo picked up a few notches and the grip on Stiles hips were harder and more firm. His father's face was still out of view and buried next to his ear by the pillow.

They were silent.

There were no fake noises and no groans or moans or huffs or puffs.

It was all mechanical and cold.

But Stiles kept biting into his lip, holding down the traitorous need to whimper every time his dad's hips met against his open pelvis. It was clinical and staged and all kinds of uncomfortable and so, so fake but Stiles had to scrunch his eyes shut, pushing away the mortifying arousal trying to dig its way out of his throat.

The sweet syrup scent in the air clogged his senses and set his skin a blaze. The lust under his skin was clawing its way out.

Stiles listed his favourite Marvel heroes in alphabetical order.

His father covered Stiles entire body in a protective manner, physically shielding him for the cold lenses of the cameras in the room, the action oddly paternal even in such a ridiculous situation.

Another thrust and another wave of shameful lust spiked like little nails inside Stiles belly.

This couldn't be happening. Christ. He was resorting to thinking of bearded, menopausal grandmas with vomit stains on their dresses as a counter measure for the swelling burn in his groin. He knew it wasn't his fault, he knew it was the sweet gas in the room that was doing this but holy bat-balls…

Stiles turned his head a little to the side and tried to find his father's face buried away from his view. The older man had his eyes closed, his mouth pressed tight and his brows drawn together. His dad's breathing was rhythmic and steady and his expression almost offensively calm while Stiles himself was slowly devolving into embarrassing mess of nerves.

Stiles fingers dug into the hard muscles of his father's back as his legs clasped around his dad's waist, his body moving back and forth with his father's movements.

 _What is the companion ingredient in the antidote for northern aconite poisoning?_

Sweat crawled down Stiles temple and his tongue felt like heavy lead in his mouth. He bit off another whimper before it could escape.

 _Stem milk from the Oleander flower._

His dad pushed in again, the sensation of those gun oiled hands closed his throat and twisted his mind. His breathing was too rapid, his body was too hot and his groin twitched from soft to hard.

 _What is Lydia's middle name?_

His legs were shaking and his toes were tingling like little ants were dancing in between the webbing of his feet.

 _Rose._ No. _Claire?_

The air was a soup of suffocating sugar, bitter pleasure and blinding glitter, thickening as he tried to remember his own middle name. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think and the private place between his legs bulged into a horrifying full erection. His father was still moving above him, unaware of Stiles' aroused panic and all he could think through the haze was thank god his old man hadn't realised anything.

 _What's his Polish name?_

His father was picking up his pace, his hips moving in a rapidly increasing rhythm, still following the unspoken play script of the Client and the Prostitute.

 _What's his real name?_

His cock was twitching and pulsing and the horror and shame and desperate _need_ twisted and mutated into an incomprehensible _desire_ to just stop the _burning_ his body.

 _What's his name…?_

"Stiles?"

There was some kind of strange keening sound and it took a few confused seconds to realise it was him. His father had stopped moving altogether but Stiles could still hear the bed squeaking against the wall, which made no sense since his dad was now crouching still and staring down at him with an incomprehensible frown.

"Stiles." The man repeated but Stiles could only focus on the bed still moving.

Then he realised the bed wasn't moving. It was him.

Stiles had arched his back at some point and pressed his pelvis into his father's frozen body and rolled his hips again and again and again, just trying and trying and _trying_ to stop the burning. His finger nails dug into the skin of his father's back as he used his dad's shoulders as leverage against his thrusts.

He choked on the cry crawling out of throat as his legs began to shake and his body all but slammed into the older man above him with a sort of force that almost looked violent.

"Please, please, _please…_ "

He just wanted the burning to stop.

His cock rubbed up against the metal ladder of his father's zipper and the rough sensation against his swollen shaft had him seeing white oblivion behind his eyelids.

Stiles didn't even notice the cum spraying onto his dad's stomach as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his body collapsed in a graceless heap.

o

After a small age had passed, Stiles blinked the fog out of his eyes and slowly came back to his senses.

This first thing he saw was the sticky pale liquid of his seed dripping in rivets down his dad's torso, the sight bizarre and so, _so_ strange that he actually didn't understand what it meant. But when the burning in his body dimmed and his breathing calmed, Stiles regained its sanity from his post-orgasmic haze which finally let the slow and mortifying clarity of what just happened sink deep in his bones.

His cum dripped, dripped, dripped till all he could see was the wet trail it left behind.

Slowly and with abject terror, Stiles looked up to meet his father's wide, startled blue eyes.

The silence that followed was numb and horrific and unlike anything he had the misfortune of experiencing before.

 _Oh god._

.

.

.

NOTE: One more chapter left.

Thanks for reading and joining me on this train to hell.

TOHIAS


	5. Chapter 5

.

TOHIAS  
It's All Just So Ridiculous

* * *

[CHAPTER 5]

* * *

"Oh god."

The words were mangled with disbelief and incomprehension.

" _Oh my god."_

The small speck of horror grew larger and larger till it bulged and deformed into unbearable mortification and all Stiles could do was to make sure his panic didn't mutate into full-blown hyperventilation.

"Stiles…" The older man shuffled closer.

The sheriff gently touched his arm and Stiles knew he could never, ever, _ever_ look at his father in the eye again.

"Stiles look at me."

He really couldn't. Instead he violently twisted away, stumbled against the pillows and tried to crawl his way from underneath his dad. He had to leave. He had to find a way to breathe on his own and not in those short, asthmatic breaths that barely let oxygen into his lungs. And there was that strange sound from his throat again but this time it wasn't from pleasure but from the physical force of Stiles trying not to cry.

And the worst thing, absolute _worst thing_ was that despite the shame and madness twisting his guts, his body wanted _more._

The _scorching_ in his stomach hadn't gone away at all, instead it seemed to have expanded from his head to his toes, the pain whispering alien thoughts into his mind, urging him to feed his growing hunger.

He had to get away.

Stiles tumbled off the edge of the bed and fell on his knees with the sheets wrapped around him like chains preventing him from leaving, pulling him back to the mattress. He tried to yank the fabric away but all he could do was press his head against the carpet and count his fingers, hoping the number would come up odd instead of even.

"Stiles, you have to breathe. In and out, come on."

Yup, he was definitely having a panic attack. However, he was acutely aware of gentle hands dragging soothing strokes down his back despite the fogginess in his vision.

"That's it, nice and deep, you know what to do."

Stiles somehow managed to follow his father's quiet instructions because he started to feel his chest loosen and he eventually wrestled back his ability to suck in oxygen. The mortification however was still very much there.

"Come on son, look at me." The older man urged as he crouched down low on the ground.

Stiles just shook his head, trying his best to coil his body into a ball so his dad couldn't see the traitorous _thing_ standing erect between his thighs.

"Everything's alright." His dad's voice rumbled deep and sure even though they both knew it was a lie.

"God I'm so sorry."

"Stiles it's fine."

"It's not fine! It's so far away fromfine that it's on _Mars_!" Stiles buried his face into the carpet, sniffling away the wetness in his eyes.

His dad hesitated a moment then suddenly dragged the blanket that was already half falling off the bed over both of them so it cocooned them both. With a quick glance at the nearest camera the older man caged Stiles with his entire body.

"Stiles look at me."

He doesn't. Instead he just choked out, "Can't. I'm too busy dying right now."

"You did nothing wrong." His dad whispered into his ear.

Stiles shut his eyes tight, unable to release his body from his foetal position in fear that his body would go nuts on him again.

"You're burning up." His father suddenly noted, his voice edged with undeniable worry.

Yeah and the things was, Stiles could feel it getting worse. Every nerve was rioting in his body at the warmth of another human being too close to his persons. Every soothing drag of his father's hand on his back felt like someone was prodding whatever pleasure centre he had in his brain with hot iron stick. Even the sound of his father breathing behind him was making him shiver with horrifying lust. He just wanted to scream at his dad to leave him alone because if he didn't, Stiles just might do something gross like hump his leg or something equally as mortifying.

When the sheriff tried to wrap his arms around him, Stiles flinched away. He didn't mean to, but the man was just too _close._

His dad immediately drew back like he'd been burned.

"Sorry…I," the man made an uncharacteristically strangled sound and his dad suddenly backed away. "That's it. We're not doing this. I'll break down the damn door if I have to."

The sheriff leaned away to go gun for the door but Stiles twisted around and held his father in place.

"No!"

With a firm tug, Stiles pulled his dad back into their weird little nest of sheets on the floor.

"Stiles, you can't do this." _I can't do this;_ the man seemed to say in between the lines.

Stiles mustered whatever calmness he could find and swallowed down his shame. "…dad the alternative isn't an option. I can do this. I just…" his mouth had never felt so dry. "Just give me a moment."

His father's blue eyes darted all over his face as if looking deeper into Stiles' words, looking for something, anything at all. In the end the sheriff just observed with weariness:

"You're still shaking." John whispered quietly.

Stiles immediately hid his hands away, as if moving them out is his dad's sight would make it less true.

"I know…I just," he licked his dry lips and looked away. "I just thought it wouldn't be this bad. I thought I could handle it…"

"The pheromone thing?"

Stiles clenched his legs tighter together and turned away from his father's concerned gaze. "Something's wrong…it's not supposed to be this strong. It's not supposed to be like this. It's not."

He glanced back towards his dad but suddenly caught sight of his drying cum on his dad's skin and he felt his entire body go red. That alien, coiling sensation in his belly just kept growing and growing and growing till Stiles just knew it was a matter of time before he lost his shit again.

And despite the tightness around his dad's eyes and the unusual flush on the man's skin, the older Stilinski was calm and composed as ever – always forever the vigilant, upstanding, unaffected sheriff.

Suddenly he was too angry for words.

"Why in god's name aren't you affected?!"

His father blinked in alarm at the sudden volume but almost immediately turned away to look at the cameras. With a sigh that was more brittle than Stiles had expected, the man replied with some reluctance:

" _I am._ "

The soft words were whispered so quietly that Stiles barely heard it but he _did_ hear it and it sounded too much like a sordid confession that was never meant to be spoken out loud. His father's face, while composed in that cop-like sort of way, was suddenly noticeably bitter and lined with pressure.

He couldn't resist.

Like a magnet being pulled to its counterpart, Stiles slowly dragged his gaze down his father's body till they locked onto the front of the older man's trousers. The dark fabric did very little to hid the abnormal bulge swollen underneath the zipper, it's shape and size far too obvious to be confused for anything else other than…

"Holy shit."

Yeah, he didn't mean to be so crass but he was more focused on trying to regain his breath.

His dad leaned away with that hollow sort of look painted in the lines of his face but Stiles couldn't care less about that, not when all the blood in his body seemed to redirect itself back into 'Little-Stiles' so fast that he nearly went cross-eyed.

"Stiles?"

He vaguely heard his dad use a tone that he's never uttered before – it sounded alarmed and a shade of confused but Stiles couldn't focus his distorted attention away from the bulge in his father's pants.

"What are you doing? Stiles, looks at me. _Stiles_!"

It was as if a monster had been sleeping underneath his skin and the sight of his father's sex-thingamabob pushing against his pants had pulled a beastly head out of chest and into the boiling vat of his stomach.

The trigger had been pulled and now Stiles entire world had narrowed down to his itching need to just…

The next thing he knew – and without any forward thought – Stiles reached out and pressed his hand onto his dad's groin, the taught, hot _feeling_ of the organ beneath those dark trousers were suddenly all he could think of, all he could see.

It was all he wanted.

The cloying, itching, _beautiful_ cloud of sweetness invaded every pore in his body, the pheromones tearing away at his will and robbing him of his mind. He ignored his dad's voice calling his name in that troubled, worried voice that he knew so well but he didn't really care. He knew what he wanted and he knew what he _needed_ to do.

He gave his father's throbbing length a firm hungry squeeze and looked at the man right in the eyes.

"Please."

The fuck was he saying? He didn't even understand what he was asking for but his body just moved on its own and tossed his free-will to the curb.

Stiles dragged his palm up the warm shaft till it rested on the swollen head and rolled his hand.

"Please."

The air was suddenly sweet again, sweet with fiery, turbulent, disastrous _hunger_ and the remaining lucid part of Stiles mind _knew_ he was losing the fight. He couldn't want this, he shouldn't want this, he _can't_ want this, but dear lord, he really, really did. And that was the last coherent thing Stiles thought of before the parasitic cloud of lust ripped him from the inside out and dragged him into purgatory.

" _Please."_

His foggy eyes beseeched the older man with each long stroke on his father's bulge and begged again _please._

Help me.

O

The first time John killed a man, he was twenty-two.

Mr Hilton had been on Ice, high as the stars in the sky and viciously angry. John remembered the children crying upstairs in the bathroom where their mother had locked them in for safety, their cries far too loud to help them hide. The wife had been beaten black and blue and half dead at the bottom of the stairs, her hair a mass of pretty blonde and garish red. Mr Hilton kept kicking her, even when she stopped moving, his eyes glazed with chemicals, his mouth noxious with alcohol and the gun in his hand shaking with blood-rage.

John vaguely remembered trying to talk him down but Hilton probably couldn't tell the sky from the ground. He did however recognise John's uniform and immediately gunned for the officer at his door.

So John shot him.

It was supposed to be a clean through-and-through but the man slipped on his wife's blood and changed the trajectory of John's bullet. Instead John had blown of his nose, obliterated a large chunk of the brow and skull with the new trajectory. There were shattered bones all over the place with Mr Hilton's eye-socket suddenly two times too large and his face slowly splitting in two halves.

The absolute worst part was that the man was still alive.

He died eventually but that was in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. John couldn't pick up his gun for nearly a year after that. Damn near almost quit being a cop. He got better eventually, but it remained the most gruesome act of violence John had inflicted against another human being and the memory of it still made his body revolt even after all these years.

But now John was thinking of Mr Hilton and his split face with vivid detail.

He was drudging up every little horrible memory on _loop_.

He was thinking about the body matter against the walls, the smell of rust in the air and the sound of the children crying in the bathroom. He was thinking of it all. Anything and everything just so he could suppress the throbbing cock in his trousers.

And it wasn't working.

The viciously sweet gas had blenched his brain and rewired his body into one collective ball of inflamed nerves. But John could ignore the burn, the want, the ticking time bomb at the back of his head. He could repress it all. He could do it for his son. He could do it for Stiles.

But that was all shot to hell the moment Stiles pressed into John's groin.

As soon as he felt those hands on him, John recoiled so fast his shoulder blades slammed violently into the bedside. Wide-eyed and uncomprehending of those familiar fingers touching him, John quickly gripped Stiles' wrists, his muscle locking into reactive instinct and pulled them far away from his body.

" _Stop."_

And his son made that sound again. That sound that seemed to slowly crawl out of his boy's throat and breathe agonising _want_ into the air like it's supposed to sound appropriate.

It wasn't. It wasn't appropriate.

And the sheriff knew he'd just lost ten years off his already terminating lifespan.

The boy in front of him didn't seem deterred by his command. Instead Stiles seemed to redouble his efforts into closing the distance between their bodies with a single-minded focus that was so inverted from his usual ADHD skittish behaviour. All John could do was press further against the side of the bed and try to reason with him.

"Stiles, Stiles stop." John repeated, still gripping his son's wrist away from him. "This isn't you."

The boy inched closer and ignored the sheets falling away from his body, exposing far too much bare skin.

His brown eyes weren't right. The indomitable alertness in his gaze was fogged over with half-hooded eyelids and abnormally dilated pupils that gave his face a look of someone high as a kite. Like the way Mr Hilton had been when John had carved his face with a bullet.

"Of course I'm not me." Stiles sounded slurred and breathy but also oddly calm as he crept even closer. "Isn't that the point of playing this game?"

The boy's eyelashes fluttered as he skimmed his eyes all over John's face, like he was feverishly trying to remember every detail about him.

"This isn't a game." John firmly insisted.

Stiles pulled his wrists out of John's deadlock grip and leaned even closer. "Playing pretend – that's what we're doing _John_ , we're playing the game of 'John and his Call-boy'. That hasn't changed. We should keep going _sir_."

Stiles reached down and cupped the front of the John's trousers again and all John could do was grit his teeth.

"Stop."

Stiles _squeezed._

John just shut his eyes tight and clenched his fingernails so hard he knew he'd broken skin.

"Please."

The boy was begging again and John wanted to break something.

"Let go." He pleaded quietly.

His son gently rubbed the hardness in John's pants and whispered in that feverish sort of daze, "But you want it too."

He knew there would be a dark circle of hell that was reserved only for John because he couldn't deny that his dick hadn't been aching for the last ten minutes. But it wasn't him. It wasn't. It was the thrice-damned chemical, pheromones, gas _whichever_ because the older Stilinski would've never felt so revoltingly aroused by his son _stroking_ him.

"It's the room Stiles, it's making us sick." John hissed.

 _This isn't us. The thing between my legs isn't me. And it isn't you._

Before John could yank the boy's hand away, Stiles was suddenly pressed all over him, their bare torsos touching and his thighs locking John from both sides like a vice.

Dilated eyes and flushed skin stared John down as his son rolled his body against his crotch in one hard _grind._

"Help me." Stiles whispered so, so close to his ear with undeniable _want_ lacing every inappropriate syllable of his son's plea.

The sheriff's department filtered through so many junkies high on whatever substance they'd sniffed, drank or shot into their bodies for momentary reprieve from reality. He watched over young teenagers locked in his jail cells as he called worried parents and shoved anti-drug pamphlets into their hands.

His son had the same glazed heat blanketing his eyes, just like all those youngsters throwing up in his jail cell.

John wondered if he looked the same.

Did he also have those swollen pupils and inflamed eyes, lost in a nebula of lust?

"John, it _hurts_." Stiles puffed into his neck.

The younger Stilinski accelerated the speed of his hands as he continued to masturbate whilst rubbing his ass into John's lap.

Barely seconds later, Stiles was mewling and spraying cum all over his hands.

John didn't know what to do.

The sheriff just couldn't maintain eye contact when Stiles lifted his flushed face to look at his father. For a moment he honestly thought the boy was going to kiss him. But he didn't. Instead Stiles half-mast eyes widened as if he realised some monumental discovery and with a breathy laugh he proclaimed:

"Wow, you have bits of brown in your eyes."

The statement was so left-field that all John could do was stare.

"Heterochromic genetic mutation." Stiles continued drowsily, like they were having a normal conversation in front of their TV, like he wasn't naked and jerking-off in his father's lap. "Huh…" He lifted his fingers like actually wanted to touch John's _eyeball._ "Never noticed before."

It was the weirdest, most random thing to start spieling off about in the middle of rutting against someone's leg. But for John, it was like a flare of hope in the dark, it was promise of air in a shut room, a light at the end of the tunnel – because it was such a _Stiles_ thing to do. Only his boy would find a genetic mutation fascinating enough to stop wanking off mid-way.

Behind all that lust, John suddenly felt overwhelming fondness for his pale, sarcastic, stubborn boy. He was certain they could find a way out.

"Stiles…" John quietly called out.

With some hesitation, John lifted his hand and gently placed his large palms against the boy's neck, feeling that erratic pulse and flushed red skin. Stiles' eyes were still dilated with only a thin ring of amber showing but John could see his son was still there – still lucid beneath all that primal hardwiring.

"Look at me." John gently instructed as he held the boy's face in both his hands. "Keep your eyes only on me."

His son immediately responded but his hands continued to rub against his hard shaft without stopping.

John gently circled his thumbs over Stiles' jaw and said, "We'll get through this. Together. But first you have to come back to me."

"It hurts" Stiles repeated much quieter this time.

"I know…I'll help you I promise, but you have to wake up and _come back_ to me son."

The boy's distant eyes hadn't changed but at least he was still looking at John without groping him.

"But it hurts _everywhere_ John _."_ There was flicker of…something in his boy's face before he squeezed his eyes shut.

"You don't have to call me that Stiles." The sheriff added gently. "I'm not your client. I'm your father and you're my son, so please, _please_ wake up."

John caressed Stiles' back like he used to when his son had been younger and sick with the flu – back when their days were measured by empty pop tart boxes and sunny afternoons. Back when John Stilinski still felt like John Stilinski and Stiles didn't carry the weight of battle scars on his skin and war drums in his chest.

"Dad?" Stiles finally blinked up, his face suddenly pale and tight.

Unparalleled relief flooded John as his boy began to slowly but surely regain that liquid sharpness in his eyes.

"Yeah, I'm here son." John smiled.

Stiles blinked at his hands like his own appendages didn't make sense to him. He pointedly stared at the sticky cum drying in between his fingers and something small and delicate crumple inside his boy's face. Unlike the first time Stiles regained his lucidity, there was no loud panic. Instead he was unnervingly quiet in his wakefulness.

The lack of hysteria didn't make the sheriff feel better.

"Stiles?" he called out carefully.

Those doe eyes fluttered up to stare at the camera, then skirted around the room till his whiskey-coloured gaze landed on John. Despite his newly regained alertness, Stiles lips tremored with barely restrained exhaustion and John knew that his boy's sudden silence was not because he was okay.

Eventually when his son did speak it neither frail nor weak – it was as if he was mentioning the weather or noting they no longer had milk in the fridge or something equally mundane.

However the honesty in Stiles' words bled through regardless of his tone:

"…Dad." he counted his fingers then looked up when he reached ten, his lips trembling like he wanted to cry. "I want to go home."

The expression on Stiles face was the look he got when he was trying so hard not to weep and kick and scream, just like he did when he stood shaking in the middle of the hospital room with his mother grey and cold like the floor beneath his broken shoes.

John looked at his son and the sheriff knew he probably looked the same.

 _I want to go home._

But there was really only one way they were going home.

The room once again breathed that horrifically sweet gas that was repulsive as it was addictive and just as its design had intended, both their bodies betrayed them for a minefield of want, want, want. So John pulled his son close and wrapped his arms around him till the negative space between their bodies merged into one embracing form.

He had never denied his son sanctuary and he wouldn't stop now, so John said the only thing he could, the only thing that would get them home:

"Okay."

O

In the end, the plan was still the same.

Give the cameras a show, let them see what they needed, unlock those doors and get the hell out of there.

The only difference was that every time the sheriff dug into their hips, ground their bodies close and brushed their skin together, those little gasp and moans tearing out of Stiles throat was neither fake nor pretend.

When Stiles leaned back into their little nest of blankets on the floor, John followed him.

When Stiles' cheeks flushed with both embarrassment and catastrophic desire, John just pressed their foreheads together.

And when his boy mewled, moaned and spread his legs open, John slid in between them and gave into his son's breathy demands.

But really nothing had changed. In the end, the plan was still the same.

But at the end of all it, he knew _they_ wouldn't be.

O

The hot cavity between their stomachs was painted with Stiles cum.

There was barely an inch of skin on his torso that wasn't slicked with sweat and covered with rolling fluids. Stiles had lost count how many times he had got-off but it must have been enough to soak the carpet beneath his back and glue his dad's chest to his.

He pressed his face into the older man's shoulder and slowly counted down till he regained the ability to breathe.

"You okay?" His father whispered close to his ear.

Stiles didn't answer.

Instead he buried his face into his dad's neck and urged the older man to _just keep moving._ He let the vortex of lust carry him off as the sheriff began to obediently grind his hips into Stiles throbbing cock all over again. They'd done this enough times that Stiles even had a favourite part of his dad's fly that he liked to dig the head of his penis against in little circular rolls. The friction against the metal zipper made Stiles breathe shudder and his toes tingle and yeah…it sounded more messed up every time he thought about it.

Stiles know he's getting more lucid and clearer with every release and he hoped that they could stop soon. He doesn't know how he's even physically capable of cumming that many times without dehydrating but somehow the Madams chemical concoction was sustaining him.

There was another deep, rolling thrust from his dad hips that seemed to fire sparks into the back of Stiles eyes and the next thing he knew, he was spraying cum all over himself _again._

Stiles let his head fall back to the ground with a soft thump and waited for the starburst to fade away from the back of his eyelids. And even as he came down from the high, he could feel his heartbeat in the length of his dick, still hard, red and weeping.

He felt like vermin.

"You okay?" his dad asked again for the millionth time and Stiles can't help but flinch with guilt at the uncertainty in the man's voice.

 _Are you okay_?

It's always the same words every time and Stiles never answered every time. He wished his dad would stop asking, he wished he would stop looking at him with those warm eyes that had no business looking so concerned and _present_. Not when Stiles had just humped his way into his seventh orgasm on his father's lap like the man was a life-size sex doll.

Stiles breathed in deep as he covered his eyes with his forearm, hoping to hell that he didn't start crying right then and there.

He could feel the bite of desire still boiling in the pit of his stomach, rolling and frothing and he knew that his body _needed_ to cum again already but Stiles didn't feel satisfied. He needed _more_. More than just some rubbing and grinding and second-base stuff.

The worst thing is that Stiles just wanted his dad to touch him.

Never, not once, in their entire sexy-time did his father put his hands on Stiles other than to hold him close and steady. The older Stilinski would press their bodies flat against each other but that was it. Everything else was up to Stiles. His father's hands were always clenched tight and away from Stiles' body. Of course he understood why, but he really, really, really wanted his dad to take those worn, rough hands and just _touch_ him. On him, _in_ him, _everywhere_.

And his body shivered at the thought feeling the other man's cock released from the confines of his pants and between Stiles' hands, on his skin and _in_ his body.

The moment the thought crossed his mind, Stiles felt bile crawling up his throat in both disgust and earth-shattering _need._

That previous alarm was back in his father's voice as he observed his son grow two shades paler. "Stiles?"

"Why is it only me?!" Stiles suddenly cried, trying to tame the hysteria that accompanied his sexual crisis.

His father blinked, those wrinkles on his forehead deepening in confusion.

"What?"

Stiles sat up from his prone position and glared at his father. "Why is it only me?! Why am I the one rutting up against you like you're a really nice piece of masturbatory furniture. Why am I the only one doing this? _Needing_ this?"

His dad didn't say anything and just looked at him all weary and jaded. But eventually he asked:

"Needing what?"

The sheriff looked like he wanted to cut his own tongue out for asking but he spoke no more and just waited for Stiles to answer and Stiles almost didn't, but he can't ignore the parasitic creature living inside his mind that just wanted to eat and eat and _eat_. So he pushed the vomit down his throat and the lust in his stomach and confessed:

"You."

The sheriff didn't seem to understand for a few moments.

But then Stiles watched his dad realise the depravity of his request and watched the man's face shuttered close.

"No."

The words were final.

Stiles knew he was going to hell so he let his hand trail down to his own cock and started to stroke himself completely out in the open and right in front of his old man. His father didn't look at him though. Instead he trained those pale slate blue eyes firmly at the wall behind him.

Stiles knew his entire body was flushed with shame but he continued to stroke himself as he edged closer to the man.

" _Please…"_ Stiles voice breaks. "Please, I don't want to do this, but I need you." It wasn't even a lie.

"No." his father repeats firmly, his voice rough and tight with unspeakable grit.

Stiles just edged closer. "Come on dad, you want it too. We can both see it." Stiles thought he almost sounded persuasive. "Just lemme help you."

His father's face was a solid wall of impenetrable stone and he's never seen the man look at him like that. Like Stiles was a creature best left in the back of the woods and shot.

"I'm not fucking you."

In the eighteen years Stiles had been gloriously alive, he'd never heard his father use that word in such a way, but hearing it now…

He should've remembered to control himself, he should've realised that the pheromones where predominantly controlling his actions and words. But of course Stiles has always been a complete spaz and decided to forgo sanity as his character dictated and bobbed his head to his father's crotch. Not wasting anytime, he pulled down the man's fly and rubbed his nose against the sheriff's bulge with an eagerness that should've embarrassed him.

But before he could dig his hands inside the older man's briefs, Stiles was suddenly slammed onto his back.

The younger Stilinski gazed up at his father's furious face and Stiles knew he'd completely lost his mind.

"Dammit Stiles!"

He flinched at his father's harsh volume.

"I can't give you what you want because you _can't_ want that. _I know_ you don't, so stop asking!" The man gritted his teeth and Stiles thought his father looked completely _wrecked._ "I'm trying. You have no idea how much I'm _trying_."

Stiles didn't know when he started crying but it was probably when the entire planetary mass of guilt finally slammed him over the head.

He couldn't believe he tried to give his dad a blowjob. Like actually tried to _force_ himself on him despite the man's very solid 'no'.

"Oh god…" Stiles choked on the horror of his own actions. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry."

And he really meant it.

However, the worst part was that Stiles was still stroking himself all the while he was apologizing.

O

John didn't know exactly when it happened, but when it did, it happened fast.

Maybe it was the sight of his son crying, his sudden tears offsetting those unnaturally dilated pupils into something that looked like a desperate void, begging, wanting and _burning_. Maybe John had been slowly losing his mind since the moment he walked into the room, unsuspecting that he'd been fighting a battle he'd already lost.

Maybe John was just simply a bad man.

In the end it didn't matter how it happened, because it eventually lead to John doing exactly what he thought he'd never do.

O

Stiles could see the moment something in his father's eyes cracked and splintered – a shadow of a dormant beast clawed its way to the surface through what was left of his dad's thin control of their very messed up situation.

Later on, when Stiles thought of this moment, he will wonder what it was that finally pushed his father off the edge.

O

The sheriff suddenly dragged Stiles up by his wrist till they were flushed against each other and their faces inches apart.

"Dad?" Stiles stuttered at the sudden action.

His father didn't answer.

Instead he let Stiles straddle his lap and secured the boy's legs firmly on both sides of his hip. Without saying anything else, the older man rolled pelvis into the hollow between Stiles legs and pressed his clothed erection right up against his own cock.

Stiles must have made some kind of strange sound because his father's unnaturally dilated eyes locked onto his mouth.

Before Stiles was the only active party while his dad remained a passive, unmoving participant. But now it was different. His father's hands were nearly bruising in their hold and he his hips moved with almost painful force. Stiles didn't know what else to do except shiver as his body revelled in the sensation of being groped and rubbed up against – just like he wanted and just like he _didn't_ want.

Stiles' legs quivered at the sensation of his dad's length digging into his groin in little sharp thrusts, feeling the shape and hardness of the organ in a way that he hadn't before.

He warred between moaning with undiluted pheromone-pleasure and choking from mind-numbing disgust.

Eventually Stiles' mind forfeited clarity for the collective sensation of his entire body being played like an instrument by rough weathered hands and gun-bruised fingers that were both achingly familiar and shockingly alien on his body. His dad did an unusual circular motion with his groin and Stiles was pretty convinced that he wouldn't be able to recall his own name if someone had asked him right then and there.

With clumsy movements, his own body tried to match his father's sudden enthusiasm, crashing, grinding and pretty much _smushing_ their groins together to keep reliving the electric jolts inside their stomachs.

At some point – Stiles didn't know when – his dad had buried his nose into the pulse of his neck and gave the column of pale skin a quick _lick._

If Stiles had any dignity left, which he didn't, he would've been embarrassed be the throaty moan that escaped from his throat as he came harder and faster than he had before.

His dad was looking at him, his blue eyes now only a thin ring around his enlarged pupils and Stiles had never seen that expression on his dad's face. It kinda looked like his dad was both painfully aroused and tragically ready to go jump out the window.

Stiles looked down where his sticky cock stood weeping against their squashed bellies, still hard and burning despite his kazillionth orgasm in a row and then he looked down at his dad's tight bulge and saw his dad still hadn't cummed once.

He barely realised his hand had reached down to cup his dad's crotch again but he felt weirdly satisfied by the hiss that came out of his father's mouth.

"Let me help you." Stiles whispered and he almost laughed at how husky he sounded, because he's never really been able to pull off sexy before and it's a bit of a joke that the one time he _does_ pull it off, it's with his dad.

His dad doesn't seem to approve of his palm rubbing up and down his covered erection, but the sheriff was also not pushing Stiles off so he saw it as a win. But before Stiles could release the man's cock from his trousers, his father suddenly gripped his hands tight and moved them away.

"No."

Stiles wanted to beat his head against the wall.

He got it, he really did, he understood why his dad was refusing to cross that line but Stiles was tired of feeling like the entire crazed-lust-gas-thingy was only effecting him. This one-sided shit had to stop.

"Just let me touch –"

"No."

"Come on! I won't even look."

"No."

"This can't just be about me!"

"No."

"Fine! Walk outta here with that damn thing poking out, but we both know it's not going away on its own."

Stiles flailed his arms up in the air in frustration and started to laugh bitterly because he was actually mad about not getting his father's junk. It was all just so ridiculous.

"Can't you be satisfied with what we're doing now?" His father asked with barely controlled frustration. "What more do you want?"

It took him a solid minute before he could muster enough balls to just say it.

Barely keeping eye contact Stiles mumbled his answer. "I…I'm okay with, you know…going all the way?"

His father just stared at him.

Stiles knew he'd gone completely red.

"…You know…doing the horizontal tango, the beast with two backs, the whole shebang?"

The man was looking at him like he was uncertain what to do with the information he'd just been given but the bulge in the older man's trousers seemed larger and tighter than before.

" _Dammit."_ the man hissed out.

Before Stiles could try and make a case, he was suddenly pulled off the man's lap and pressed against the floor. A little shocked at the sudden position change, Stiles just stared up at the man looming above him and saw his dad's face was taught, glazed and his eyes so, so dark with _want_. Stiles honestly didn't know what else to do except stare dumbly at the nearly unrecognisable man in front of him.

"Hands and knees." Came the clipped demand.

Stiles blinked.

"What?"

"Get on your hands and knees."

Stiles just watched incredulously as his father started to unloop his belt from his waist.

Holy ball sacks. It was actually happening.

Stiles didn't wait for his father to repeat himself and quickly rolled over and propped his body on all fours. His skin felt ablaze was anticipation and re-doubled arousal that he felt almost dizzy. He choked on his own spit when his hips were dragged back, his bare ass hanging up into the air and waiting with anticipation. In all his excitement, Stiles couldn't push away the blooming confusion. Despite the gas making his body _ache_ for this, Stiles was lucid enough to feel suddenly terrified.

"Dad…?" Stiles didn't like how scared his words sounded to his own ears.

His old man must of heard the fear in his voice too because suddenly his dad's arms were wrapped around him in a secure hold.

"Listen to me…we go only as far as _you_ say." His dad said unusually calm.

Stiles' voice got caught in his throat.

"Hang on…are we really doing it?"

There was a disapproving sound from the man's throat.

"No. I told you before." His dad's voice was suddenly close to his ear. "I'm not fucking you."

Stiles confusion only grew when he heard the tell-tale sound of the sheriff pulling down his zipper.

The hell was happening?

He heard the sound of rustling and Stiles knew his dad had pulled out his cock the moment he heard a loud, relieved hiss from the older man behind him. Stiles tried to turn around to look back, because honestly he couldn't resist, but the older man immediately clicked his tongue and nudged Stiles to keep his eyes on the wall.

"Is there lube here?" His dad asked.

It took a lot longer than usual for Stiles brain to catch up with his ears but eventually he stammered, "Yeah…yeah, all the rooms have a stash in the bathroom."

"Alright." He could hear his dad standing up. "Don't move."

His entire body felt like it was going to unravel with anticipation the entire time it took his father to go get the lube. By the time he came back, Stiles could hear the man squirting gel into his hands and rubbing the lube between his hands.

Stiles nearly jumped out his skin when he suddenly felt fingers on the back of his thighs.

"Sorry." His dad whispered. "I tried to warm it as much as I could."

"What –?"

Then Stiles choked.

His father had slipped his wet hands in the V of his legs and slicked his inner thighs with a generous coating of lube. His fingers gently massaged the sensitive skin of his thighs and every time the man dragged his palms high enough to _almost_ touch his cock, it took nearly everything to _not_ whine. The entire thing felt too fast by the time the sheriff removed his hands from Stiles body.

"Stay on your hands and knees." His father instructed. Suddenly there were pillows underneath him to cushion his elbows. "Shut your legs together and keep them closed. Tight."

It was with a burst of clarity that Stiles realised what his dad was planning.

"Oh my god…are we?" Stiles stammered, his face flushed and hands shaking.

The man behind him stilled but then gently brushed his fingers on his back and softly asked, "Is that alright?"

"Yeah…" Stiles swallowed. "Yeah we can work with that."

O

When his father finally pushed his cock in between his legs, it felt like the fleshy hollow of his thighs had become an organ of its own.

He could feel the shape and size of the man's girth slowly pushing forward, leaving a trail of blazing hot skin till he was hilt deep and Stiles was losing his ability to keep his arms up without shaking. There was a moment where the only sound in the room were the laboured huff of his father's breathing – like the man was trying not to completely lose it.

A small ice-age had passed when the older Stilinski slowly, so god damn _slowly_ , pulled out till just the head of his cock was trapped between the meat of Stiles slicked thighs.

A moment of complete stillness settled around them that neither dared break.

Then his father jerked his hips and slammed back in with one abrupt push.

Stiles allowed himself to fall face-first into his pillow and just _scream._

O

Stiles felt the flesh of his thighs warp and mould itself to fit the hard shaft that kept striking between his legs.

His cock was weeping and when his dad slipped that pulsing, hot _thing_ against his perineum and the underside of his balls, Stiles knew he was a hairline fracture away from blowing his load.

The mushroom head of his father's cock felt _very_ distinct against his skin and Stiles wanted to turn around and just take a look at the damn organ that was rendering his coherency to that of a toddler, but every time he tried, his dad would hiss and direct his attention elsewhere with a cleverly timed thrust.

It was non-penetrative sex. 'Thigh-fucking' as Lydia once tactfully labelled it in the middle of history class, but Stiles just didn't understand why it felt so… _probing_ , like everything his dad did was an attack on his nerves and a scorching poke inside his belly. God knows, Stiles couldn't even feel his limbs anymore because all sensations had been directed straight to the three inches of skin that made up his inner thighs.

Stiles reached down and grabs his cock with one has and starts to jerk-off in tempo with the slamming thrusts spearing him from behind.

He's wasn't surprised when he came in less than two minutes, biting his dad's name back down his throat because letting it out would just about kill him.

O

John watches the boy beneath him twist and squirm with each thrust.

He observes the ladder joints of his son's spine move with every moaning arch and groaning climax.

Moles cover the expanse of youthful skin and John in certain he's found the Crater constellation and something that might resemble the Big Dipper. He's not sure. The stars on his boy's body keeps moving with every jerky thrust of his hips and John knows he shouldn't be so damn familiar with that pale back.

He grinds his teeth together when the boy convulses into his next high and sprays into his own hand whilst burying those throaty cries into the floor.

And the sounds…god the _sounds_ the boy could make.

John bites into his lips, tasting blood in his mouth and watches his boy orgasms again and again and again with unforgiving attention.

O

He knew it was all over for him when his dad reached around and wrapped his fingers around Stiles' cock.

"Oh holy mother of hell…" Stiles groaned, trying not to hyperventilate at the sensation.

His old man had never, not once, touched him there.

Not when Stiles was grinding up against him before and not now when Stiles had his ass in the air and his balls rubbed all raw from his father's thrusts. But now those hands that used to soothe his sores and made his dinners were stroking his length in time with his hips and Stiles knew he was going to lose his shit _fast_.

His dad continued to jerk him off with quick little tugs in time with every slam of skin on skin and Stiles was suddenly unable to string a single coherent thought.

He could feel it again. The catastrophic _aching_ and Stiles knew this was it.

He reached down between his legs where he could feel the man's girth breaching the negative space between his legs and fumbled around till his fingers met his father's warm, bulbous head.

Not caring and still high from the gas, Stiles _squeezed_ whatever part of his dad's cock he could reach.

His father shuddered to a stop, alarmed and probably shocked by the feeling of Stiles fingers fondling him. And even in his haze, Stiles was aware enough to be disproportionately pleased by the throaty groan he ripped from his father's mouth.

"Keep going." Stiles moaned when the inactively became too much.

His father doesn't even hesitate to obey and pistons his pelvis again and again whilst stroking him. Stiles at the same time continued to wrap his fingers around the swollen penis sliding in and out of his thighs till they both reached a meteoric crescendo.

His dad growled, actually _growled_ into the back of his neck and Stiles thought it sounded like a dying man being torn apart in five different directions.

The next thing he knew, something hot and wet burst against his balls and dribbled down his over sensitive thighs.

It took far too long for Stiles to realise his dad had sprayed his load all over him.

The new knowledge of why his father was shivering and convulsing above him suddenly bleached Stiles' vision white. He didn't even have time to scream when Stiles exploded into his father's hand which was still stroking, rubbing and pulling Stiles cock apart with his wicked fingers and unforgiving speed.

Stiles didn't even have the strength to feel embarrassed at the _wailing_ sound coming from his mouth because he was too busy soaking the blankets with his cum. He looked back at his dad for the first time and saw the older man looked absolutely _gone_ as he swayed and shook with graceless tremors that made him look both vulnerable and powerful.

For some reason the only coherent post-coital thought he had was the incredulous realisation that throughout the entire thing, his dad had never taken off his pants.

Stiles' finally lost all its strength and he collapsed with the sheriff on top of him.

For the longest time it was just Stiles and his dad breathing the same air and trying to regain the ability to move.

Eventually the silence was breached by a deep rumbling question mumbled into the skin of Stiles shoulder.

"…Was it enough?" his dad asked, his voice rough and deep like sandpaper dipped in hot coals.

For a moment Stiles didn't understand his father's quiet words.

"Please tell me it was enough." The older man whispered so close to his ear. "I can't do any more than this."

The sudden guilt made him want to physically wretch because his dad's words were laced with exhaustion and bone shattering _regret_ that Stiles never ever wanted to hear his father sound like that again.

So without looking at the man – because he knows he can't maintain eye contact – Stiles just nodded as his vision bled around the edges and he knew he was going to pass out.

"Yeah…" He whispered as his consciousness left him. "Yeah, it's enough."

O

When Stiles woke up, he was alone.

No longer passed on the floor, Stiles had been carried to the bed and his body wiped clean of any evidence of incriminating bodily fluids.

He couldn't smell that godawful gas and he was immensely grateful for it.

However when he tried sitting up, the nausea that followed had him quickly covering his mouth and bolting for the bathroom. Griping the porcelain bowl tight, he emptied his stomach till he was sure he couldn't do it anymore. Stiles couldn't begrudge the discomfort of rancid stomach acid sitting on his tongue because he felt it was a purge he desperately needed.

Stiles didn't count how many minutes he stayed sprawled on the bathroom floor.

O

Stiles picked up the piece of paper on the pillow and read:

 _There's been an emergency summoning from our friends downstairs. I'm sorry._

 _Please find your way home safely._

 _~John O'Brien_

Stiles didn't try to overanalyse why the man chose to sign the note with his alias instead of _dad_.

O

Stiles eventually cleaned up and managed to sneak out of the building to make his way to the hidden rendezvous point.

"Stiles!" Scott jumped up from his seat on the hood of his car and ran up to meet him half way. "Dude, why didn't you call earlier?!"

Stiles nearly recoiled at the sudden volume of the werewolf's presence but immediately calmed down when his friend shot him his usual thousand-watt-smile.

"Sorry man, just got a bit caught up."

Scott frowned and scanned his eyes all over him, checking for any physical signs that Stiles was missing an arm or something equally dramatic.

"You alright though?"

"Yeah, totally man." He slaps his friend on the back.

Scott jumps a little on both feet trying to stay warm in the cold night air and he asks, "So your investigation is finished?"

Stiles had totally forgotten about it actually but he just nodded because he had no desire to go back in that place ever again.

"Yup, I'm done. It's a total dead end."

He nudged his friend towards the car as they continued talking.

"Actually I think you've already solved the case." Scott informed excitedly.

Stiles just frowned in confusion.

"What do you mean I solved the case?"

"Well remember when you told me to check if Mr Grubs had a wife because you noticed a tan line on his ring finger?"

"Yeah?"

"You were right!"

Stiles blinked.

"Okay…the nasty guy has a wife. What about it?"

"Dude, we checked her out, even got Derek to go sniffing around her place and guess what?" Scott leaned in, his warm breath fogging up the ice air. "She totally our serial killer."

"Seriously?"

"Yup. Deaton thinks she's a Naiad."

Stiles squinted as he wracked his brain at the name. "Wait…naiad as in a water nymph? Seriously?"

"Yup. She apparently had problem with all the prostitutes sleeping with her husband. It's why she was killing those girls. Used her water voodoo or something to drown them and them make their lungs explode. Total Revenge man." Scott explained then he made a considering expression. "Don't know why she didn't take it out on her husband though, I mean, he's the one that messed up. Anyway we don't really have any evidence yet but Deaton and Derek are working it."

"That's great!" Stiles beamed. At least something turned out well.

But just as Stiles grabbed hold on the car door, he came to a sudden, sobering realisation.

If what Scott said was true, then the Madame of the hotel had nothing to do with the killings at all, meaning Stiles and his dad had pretty much just had sex for a perceived threat that didn't even exist.

Stiles didn't know how he managed not to drop to the floor and just laugh till his suffocated.

Scott peered closely from across the car roof in that puppyish sort of way and noted, "Hey man, you look kinda sick."

Stiles recited the Canadian national anthem in his head and just gave an overly casual shrug to his best friend. "Just a bit tired." Then he quickly added. "Oh yeah, sorry you had to pick me up at ass-o-clock in the morning."

His friend blinked at the sudden conversation change but easily replied, "Nah it's fine. I'm actually really glad your dad called me when he did. I was going out of my mind when you didn't give me an update at our regular time slot." he gave a relieved sigh as he opened his door. "You know I was pretty convinced you were dead for a moment there."

Stiles scoffed as he slid into his seat.

"Oh ye of little faith Scotty."

Scott rolled his eyes and started the engine but as soon as Stiles shut his door, he could feel his friend suddenly go tense and his nostrils flare as he sniffed the air in the suddenly enclosed car space.

That's when Stiles remembered his friend was a _werewolf_ , as in his supernaturally enhanced sense of smell could probably pick up the scent of _sex_ all over him.

But that's not what suddenly made his friend go from relaxed to ridged confusion.

It was _who's_ scent was on him that probably made his friend scrunch his eyebrows together with incomprehension.

Stiles pretended to fiddle around with the seat belt and ignored the fact that Scott could probably hear his heartbeat hammering in his guilty little chest.

However Scott, bless the boy, didn't say anything as they reversed out of the parking lot.

Minutes later when they were halfway back to Stiles college dorms and bickering about which radio station to play, Stiles noticed Scott had gone unusually quiet in one of the lulls in their conversation. Eyes drooping with bone-deep exhaustion, Stiles barely heard Scott break the silence that had descend in the small moving vehicle.

"Stiles…?"

Stiles kept his head propped against the glass window and pretended he could actually see the stars. But the sky remained an inky void as dark as the shame fracturing like little bits of glass in his throat and Stiles had never wanted to take a shower so bad in his life.

"Hmm?"

His friend didn't say anything for a while and Stiles knew his buddy was trying to choose the right words. The level of tact Scott was putting into the situation would've made Allison proud had she been alive.

Finally Scott stuck to words that were familiar to him:

"You okay?"

His genuine concern was equally warming as it was heavy and Stiles was usually very good at working with the overly sincere puppy he called best friend, but this time Stiles couldn't give his friend the honesty he deserved. He couldn't do it when his mind was a minefield of triggers and the inflamed word no, no, _no_ going on loop in his head.

So in the end Stiles just kept staring out the window and watched the street lights blur together in the dark.

"Yeah, totally man."

His heartbeat betrayed his words.

"Everything's cool."

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[END]

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NOTE: This story occurred to me while my father and I were in the garage trying to fix up his old motorbike.

Half covered in grease and high from the motor fumes, I came up with a pretty sound plot involving prostitutes, pheromones and inevitable rutting. Dad watched my rather dubious snickering from the corner of his eye with an expression I've come to identify as a hybrid mixture of paternal concern and practiced suspicion.

Feeling two-parts excited and one-part ashamed for having such reprehensible thoughts, I apologized to him as we spent the night drinking beers and re-watching V for Vendetta.

I didn't explain to him why.

~TOHIAS-BANE

P.S - There are no fancy words to illustrate the deepness of my affection I have for my immoral readers. You guys have been unfathomably awesome.

There will be a sequel.

Over and Out.


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